UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


ROBERT  ERNEST  COWAN 


t     _ 

Literature  Series 


Number  One 


Readings  from 
California  Poets 


SELECTED  BY 

EDMUND  RUSSELL 


PRICE,  TWENTY-FIVE  CENTS 


PUBLISHED    BY 

THE    WHITAKER    &    RAY    CO. 

EDUCATIONAL.  PUBLISHERS 
SAN  FKAHGISCO 


Readings  from 

California  Poets 


SELECTED    BY 

EDMUND    RUSSELL 


SAN    FRANCISCO 

THE  WHITAKER  &  RAY  Co. 

1900 


COPYRIGHT 

i  too 

THE  WHITAKER  A.  RAY  Co. 


-n    M 

PS.  0 

5"7( 


VANCE  CHENEY 


302002 


T^HIS  collection  grew  out  of  a  studio-evening  de 
voted  to  California  writers  of  verse.  Most  of 
the  readings  were  new  to  those  present ;  and  as  it 
was  found  no  collective  representation  had  been 
made  for  more  than  twenty  years,  the  compiler  of 
this  volume  was  interested  to  read  further,  and  ar 
range  those  pieces  that  spoke  best  of  California 
talent  or  were  best  suited  to  the  technique  of 
dramatic  reading. 

It  would  seem  that  perhaps  no  other  State  in  the 
Union  could  show  more  original  and  dramatic 
power.  The  glory  of  the  eschscholtzia,  the  weird- 
ness  of  the  madrone,  the  grandeur  of  the  unsur 
passable  redwoods,  the  awe  of  the  desert  mescal, — 
blossom  into  a  strange  verse  that  can  only  belong 
to  the  Pacific  Coast — to  California. 

The  thanks  of  the  compiler  are  tendered  to 
authors,  publishers  and  friends  for  their  kind  assist 
ance  and  interest. 


or 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 

SEDDIE  E.  ANDERSON — Which  is  Best  ? 99 

GENEVIEVE  LUCILLE  BROWN — Ballad  of  Lilies 48 

JOHN  VANCE  CHENEY — The  Confession 34 

Liolan 32 

The  Parting  of  Ilmar  and  Haadin 43 

INA  COOLBRITH — California 9 

La  Flor  del  Salvador 79 

The  Music  of  Macbeth 85 

The  Years 78 

CAPT.  JACK  CRAWFORD — Rattlin' Joe's  Bible 119 

ELLA  STERLING  CUMMINS — Mount  Tamalpais 57 

ROLLIN  M.  DAGGETT — My  New  Year's  Guests 19 

EMMA  FRANCES  DAWSON — Decoration  Day 91 

Old  Glory 88 

Lucius  HARWOOD  FOOTE — A  New  Italy 26 

El  Vaquero 46 

JOSEPH  T.  GOODMAN — Abraham  Lincoln 28 

LYMAN  GOODMAN — The  Fair  Tamborinist 65 

BRET  HARTE — On  the  Landing 121 

San  Francisco 117 

The  Song  of  the  Bullet 31 

SARAH  EDWARDS  HENSHAW — The  Telegram 108 

The  Tone  of  Voice 120 

Vigils  for  Passion  Week 53 

NATHAN  C.  KOUNS— Lex  Scripta no 

MARY  LAMBERT— The  Devil's  Bride 123 

EMILIE  LAWSON — Critic  and  Poet 97 

CHARLES  EDWIN  MARKHAM— Poetry 87 

The  Cricket 74 

ADAH  ISAACS  MENKEN — In  Vain 44 

JOAQUIN  MILLER — A  Christmas  Eve  in  the  Palm  Land ......    66 

Como 40 

Finale 84 

Illinois 38 

Mother  Egypt 36 

Old  California 15 

Peter  Cooper 82 

The  Isles  of  the  Amazons 107 

The  Millionaire 83 

The  Passing  of  Tennyson 86 


DANIEL  O'CONNELL— Mission  Roses 63 

AMIB  S.  PAGE— The  Miracle  at  Cana 55 

The  Supper  at  Emmaus 56 

CHARLES  HENRY  PHBLPS — Apache 118 

INA  LILLIAN  PETERSON — Humility 62 

EDWARD  POLLOCK— Evening 24 

The  Chandos  Portrait  of  Shakspeare 30 

ALICE  EDWARDS  PRATT— The  Sleeping  Princess 90 

RICHARD  REALF— Indirection 51 

J.  H.  ROGERS— The  Spirit  Lover 47 

CHARLES  H.  SHINN — The  Unborn  Soul 23 

MILICENT  WASHBURN  SHINH— A  Cycle 73 

LILIAN  HINMAN  SHUEY— Mendocino 60 

EDWARD  ROWLAND  SILL — The  Fool's  Prayer 96 

Her  Explanation 72 

Five  Lives 75 

Morning 77 

LORENZO  Sosso — Genesis 114 

Ultima  Thule 116 

CHARLES  WARREN  STODDARD — Exile 115 

ANNIE  LAKE  TOWNSEND — Sestina 68 

To  Clara  Morris 50 

CLARENCE  URMY — Graves 95 

MADGE  MORRIS  WAGNER — Rocking  the  Baby 109 

To  the  Colorado  Desert Si 

JOSEPHINE  WALCOTT — Santa  Barbara 59 

CARRIE  STEVENS  WALTER— In  the  Shadow 7° 

Nirvana 49 

Ojala 52 

A  Thought  of  Farewell 61 

VIRNA  WOODS — Chorus  of  Amazons 80,  98 

Chorus  and  Semi-Chorus 100 


HEADINGS  IN   VERSE. 

B.  P.  AVKKY 57      RICHARD  RBALF 38 

KATE  M.  BISHOP no      ANNA  MORRISON  RBBO 9 

J.  F.  BOWMAN 75      HIRAM  HOYT  RICHMOND 36 

JOHN  VANCB  CHBNKY 82     JOHN  R.  RIDGB 15, 19,  44,  118 

INA  COOI.BRITH 28,  56,  84,  91       E.  R.  SILL 26,  59,  68,  77 

ANNA  M.  FITCH 88      PHILIP  SHIRLEY 47 

Lucius  HOWARD  FOOTB 23,  83      LORBNZO  Sosso 34,  48, 61,  79,  119 

IRBNR  HARDY 66  CHARLKS  WARREN  STODDARD  ....  24,  86 

BRKT  HARTB 51,  63,  78,  121       M.  B.  M.  TOI.AND 114 

SARAH  EDWARDS  HENSHAW 53      ANNIE  LAKE  TOWNSEND 32,  98 

W.  A.  KENDALL 47. 73     JOSEPHINE  WALCOTT 53 

MARY  LAMBERT 83      CARRIE  STEVENS  WALTER 70 

JOAQUIN  MILLER 9,  81,  96,  116, 113      C.  H.  WEBB 40,  108 

DANIEL  O'CONNBLL 31,  43  49,  120      VIRNA  WOODS 59,  98,  too 


Queen  of  the  Coast,  she  sits  there  emerald  crowned, 
Waiting  her  ships  that  sail  in  from  the  sea. 

Brighter  than  all  the  western  world,  to  me, 

Seems  this  young  goddess  whom  the  years  have  found. 
Ocean  and  land,  fraught  with  their  treasures  sweet, 
Vie  as  they  bring  their  burdens  to  her  feet. 

Jn  her  brave  arms,  she  holds  with  proud  content, 
The  varied  plenty  of  a  continent ; 

In  her  fair  face,  and  in  her  dreaming  eyes, 

Shines  the  full  promise  of  her  destinies  ; 
Winds  kiss  her  cheek,  while  fret  the  restless  tides 

She  in  their  truth,  with  trust  divine  confides  ; 
Watching  the  course  of  Empire's  brilliant  star, 

She  looks  with  patient  eyes,  across  the  Bar. 

ANNA  MORRISON  REED. 

How  beautiful  she  was  !  why  she 
Was  inspiration  !  She  was  born 
To  walk  God's  summer  hills  at  morn. 

JOAQUIN  MILLER. 


CALIFORNIA. 

INA   COOLBRITH. 

WAS  it  the  sigh  and  shiver  of  the  leaves ? 
Was  it  the  murmur  of  the  meadow  brook, 
That  in  and  out  the  reeds  and  water-weeds 
Slipped  silverly,  and  on  their  tremulous  keys 
Uttered  her  many  melodies  ?     Or  voice 
Of  the  far  sea,  red  with  the  sunset  gold, 
That  sang  within  her  shining  shores,  and  sang 
Within  the  Gate,  that  in  the  sunset  shone 
A  gate  of  fire  against  the  outer  world? 

For  ever  as  I  turned  the  magic  page 

Of  that  old  song  the  old,  blind  singer  sang 

Unto  the  world,  when  it  and  song  were  young — 

The  ripple  of  the  reeds,  or  odorous, 

Soft  sigh  of  leaves,  or  voice  of  the  far  sea — 

A  mystical,  low  murmur,  tremulous 

Upon  the  wind,  came  in  with  musk  of  rose, 

The  salt  breath  of  the  waves,  and  far,  faint  smell 

Of  laurel  up  the  slopes  of  Tamalpais. 


io  EDMUND  RUSSELL'S  READINGS. 

'  'Am  I  less  fair,  am  I  less  fair  than  these, 

Daughters  of  far-off  seas  ? 
Daughters  of  far-off  shores — bleak,  over-blown 
With  foam  of  fretful  tides,  with  wail  and  moan 
Of  waves,  that  toss  wild  hands,  that  clasp  and  beat 
Wild,  desolate  hands  above  the  lonely  sands, 
Printed  no  more  with  pressure  of  their  feet : 
That  chase  no  more  the  light  feet  flying  swift 

Up  golden  sands,  nor  lift 
Foam  fingers  white  unto  their  garment  hem, 

And  flowing  hair  of  them. 

"For  these  are  dead :  the  fair,  great  queens  are  dead 
The  long  hair's  gold  a  dust  the  wind  bloweth 

Wherever  it  may  list ; 

The  curved  lips,  that  kissed 
Heroes  and  kings  of  men,  a  dust  that  breath, 
Nor  speech,  nor  laughter,  ever  quickeneth ; 

And  all  the  glory  sped 

From  the  large,  marvelous  eyes,  the  light  whereof 
Wrought  wonder  in  their  hearts — desire  and  love  1 

And  wrought  not  any  good : 
But  strife,  and  curses  of  the  gods,  and  flood, 

And  fire  and  battle-death  ! 

Am  I  less  fair,  less  fair, 

Because  that  my  hands  bear 
Neither  a  sword,  nor  any  flaming  brand 
To  blacken  and  make  desolate  my  land, 
But  on  my  brows  are  leaves  of  olive  boughs, 

And  in  mine  arms  a  dove ! 


CALIFORNIA    POETS.          .  II 

'Sea-born  and  goddess,  blossom  of  the  foam, 
Pale  Aphrodite,  shadowy  as  a  mist 

Not  any  sun  hath  kissed  ! 

Tawny  of  limb  /roam, 
The  dusks  of  forests  dark  within  my  hair ; 

The  far  Yosemite, 
For  garment  and  for  covering  of  me, 

Wove  the  white  foam  and  mist, 
The  amber  and  the  rose  and  amethyst 
Of  her  wild  fountains,  shaken  loose  in  air. 
And  I  am  of  the  hills  and  of  the  sea  : 
Strong  with  the  strength  of  my  great  hills,  and  calm 
With  calm  of  the  fair  sea,  whose  billowy  gold 
Girdles  the  land  whose  queen  and  love  I  am  ! 

Lo  !  am  I  less  than  thou, 
That  with  a  sound  of  lyres,  and  harp-playing, 

Not  any  voice  doth  sing 
The  beauty  of  mine  eyelids  and  my  brow? 
Nor  hymn  in  all  my  fair  and  gracious  ways, 

And  lengths  of  golden  days, 
The  measure  and  the  music  of  my  praise  ? 

"Ah,  what  indeed  is  this 

Old  land  beyond  the  seas,  that  ye  should  miss 
For  her  the  grace  and  majesty  of  mine? 

Are  not  the  fruit  and  vine 
Fair  on  my  hills,  and  in  my  vales  the  rose? 

The  palm-tree  and  the  pine 
Strike  hands  together  under  the  same  skies 

In  every  wind  that  blows. 

What  clearer  heavens  can  shine 
Above  the  land  whereon  the  shadow  lies 


12  EDMUND   RUSSELL  S    READINGS. 

Of  her  dead  glory,  and  her  slaughtered  kings, 

And  lost,  evanished  gods? 

Upon  my  fresh  green  sods 
No  king  has  walked  to  curse  and  desolate : 
But  in  the  valleys  Freedom  sits  and  sings, 

And  on  the  heights  above ; 
Upon  her  brows  the  leaves  of  olive  boughs, 

And  in  her  arms  a  dove ; 
And  the  great  hills  are  pure,  undesecrate, 

White  with  their  snows  untrod, 
And  mighty  with  the  presence  of  their  God ! 

"Hearken,  how  many  years 
I  sat  alone,  I  sat  alone  and  heard 

Only  the  silence  stirred 
By  wind  and  leaf,  by  clash  of  grassy  spears, 
And  singing  bird  that  called  to  singing  bird. 

Heard  but  the  savage  tongue 
Of  my  brown  savage  children,  that  among 
The  hills  and  valleys  chased  the  buck  and  doe, 

And  round  the  wigwam  fires 
Chanted  wild  songs  of  their  wild  savage  sires, 
And  danced  their  wild,  wierd  dances  to  and  fro, 
And  wrought  their  beaded  robes  of  buffalo. 

Day  following  upon  day, 
Saw  but  the  panther  crouched  upon  the  limb, 

Smooth  serpents,  swift  and  slim, 
Slip  through  the  reeds  and  grasses,  and  the  bear 

Crush  through  his  tangled  lair 
Of  chapparal,  upon  the  startled  prey ! 


CALIFORNIA   POETS.  13 

"Listen,  how  I  have  seen 

Flash  of  strange  fires  in  gorge  and  black  ravine ; 
Heard  the  sharp  clang  of  steel,  that  came  to  drain 

The  mountain's  golden  vein — 

And  laughed  and  sang,  and  sang  and  laughed  again, 
Because  that  'now,'  I  said,  'I  shall  be  known  ! 

I  shall  not  sit  alone ; 
But  reach  my  hands  unto  my  sister  lands ! 

And  they  ?     Will  they  not  turn 
Old,  wondering  dim  eyes  to  me,  and  yearn — 

Aye,  they  will  yearn,  in  sooth, 
To  my  glad  beauty,  and  my  glad,  fresh  youth ! ' 

"What  matters  though  the  morn 
Redden  upon  my  singing  fields  of  corn ! 
What  matters  though  the  wind's  unresting  feet 

Ripple  the  gold  of  wheat, 

And  my  vales  run  with  wine, 

And  on  these  hills  of  mine 
The  orchard  boughs  droop  heavy  with  ripe  fruit? 

When  with  nor  sound  of  lute 
Nor  lyre,  doth  any  singer  chant  and  sing 

Me,  in  my  life's  fair  spring: 
The  matin  song  of  me  in  my  young  day? 
But  all  my  lays  and  legends  fade  away 
From  lake  and  mountain  to  the  farther  hem 
Of  sea,  and  there  be.  none  to  gather  them. 

"Lo  !  I  have  waited  long ! 
How  longer  yet  must  my  strung  harp  be  dumb, 

Ere  its  great  master  come? 
Till  the  fair  singer  conies  to  wake  the  strong, 
Rapt  chords  of  it  unto  the  new,  glad  song ! 


(4  EDMUND    RUSSELL  S    READINGS. 

Him  a  diviner  speech 

My  song-birds  wait  to  teach  : 

The  secrets  of  the  field 

My  blossoms  will  not  yield 

To  other  hands  than  his  ; 

And,  lingering  for  this, 
My  laurels  lend  the  glory  of  their  boughs 

To  crown  no  narrower  brows. 
For  on  his  lips  must  wisdom  sit  with  youth ; 
And  in  his  eyes,  and  on  the  lids  thereof, 

The  light  of  a  great  love — 

And  on  his  forehead,  truth ! "     .     .     . 

Was  it  the  wind,  or  the  soft  sigh  of  leaves, 
Or  sound  of  singing  waters?     Lo,  I  looked, 
And  saw  the  silvery  ripples  of  the  brook, 
The  fruit  upon  the  hills,  the  waving  trees, 
And  mellow  fields  of  harvest ;  saw  the  Gate 
Burn  in  the  sunset :  the  thin  thread  of  mist 
Creep  white  across  the  Saucelito  hills  ; 
Till  the  day  darkened  down  the  ocean  rim, 
The  sunset  purple  slipped  from  Tamalpais, 
And  bay  and  sky  were  bright  with  sudden  stars ! 


Yet,  though  the  wayside  all  be  strewn 
With  sorrows  and  with  graves. 

The  glory  of  the  race  is  shown 
By  what  it  does  and  braves. 

'  Tis  not  the  Hying  that  have  won 

Alone  the  victory: 
But  each  dead  soldier,  too,  has  done 

His  part  as  loftily. 

JOHN  R.  RIDGE. 


OLD  CALIFORNIA. 

JOAQUIN   MILLER. 

5  HP  IS  a  land  so  far  that  you  wonder  whether 

1      E'en  God  would  know  it  should  you  fall  down  dead ; 

'Tis  a  land  so  far  through  the  wilds  and  weather, 
That  the  sun  falls  weary  and  flushed  and  red, — 

That  the  sea  and  the  sky  seem  coming  together, 
Seem  closing  together  as  a  book  that  is  read  : 

Oh  !  the  nude,  wierd  West,  where  an  unnamed  river 
Rolls  restless  in  bed  of  bright  silver  and  gold ; 

Where  white  flashing  mountains  flow  rivers  of  silver 
As  a  rock  of  the  desert  flowed  fountains  of  old; 

By  a  dark  wooded  river  that  calls  to  the  dawn, 

And  makes  mouths  at  the  sea  with  his  dolorous  swan : 

Oh  !  the  land  of  the  wonderful  sun  and  weather, 
With  green  under  foot  and  with  gold  over  head, 

Where  the  sun  takes  flame  and  you  wonder  whether 
'T  is  an  isle  of  fire  in  his  foamy  bed  : 

Where  the  ends  of  the  earth  they  are  welding  together 
In  rough-hewn  fashion,  in  a  forge-flame  red. 


Commend  me  to  the  old  Californian.     I  should  say  that  an 
old  gold  hunter  of '49,  standing  on  a  peak  of  the  Sierras  with  the 


16  EDMUND  RUSSELL'S  READINGS. 

world  behind  him,  storm -blown  and  beaten,  yet  with  hands  and 
heart  open,  unsullied  by  any  sin  of  the  populous  world  below, 
stands  not  far  from  God. 

They  climb'd  ihe  rock-built  breasts  of  earth, 

The  Titan-fronted,  billowy  steeps 

That  cradled  Time  .   .   .   Where  Freedom  keeps 

Her  flag  of  white-blown  stars  unfurl'd, 

They  turn'd  about,  they  saw  the  birth 

Of  sudden  dawn  upon  the  world  : 

Again  they  gazed  ;  they  saw  the  face 

Of  God,  and  named  it  boundless  space. 

Ah,  there  have  been  clouds  in  the  old  Californian's  life, 
storms  and  wrecks,  and  years  of  clouds.  And  even  still  there 
are  more  than  enough  in  the  West  to  make  the  sunset  glorious. 
But  the  world  is  away  off  to  him.  He  has  memories — a  lock  of 
hair  in  his  hand,  a  little  song  in  his  heart.  He  lives  alone  in  the 
past.  Life,  love — all  with  him  are  over;  but  he  does  not  com 
plain.  May  he  strike  it  yet  in  the  shaft  he  is  still  sinking,  in  the 
great  tunnel  he  is  still  boring  into  the  mountains,  and  go  back  to 
his  waiting  wife  and  babes.  Alas  !  his  babes  are  full-grown  ;  he 
will  never  see  his  babies  any  more. 

It  is  to  be  allowed  that  these  men  were  not  at  all  careful  of 
the  laws,  either  ancient  or  modern,  ecclesiastical  or  lay.  They 
would  curse.  They  would  fight  like  dogs — aye,  like  Christians 
in  battle.  But  there  was  more  solid  honor  among  them  than 
the  world  will  ever  see  again  in  any  body  of  men,  I  fear,  till 
it  approaches  the  millennium. 

Do  you  know  where  the  real  old  Californian  is? — the  giant, 
the  world-builder? 

He  is  sitting  by  the  trail  high  up  on  the  mountain.  His  eyes 
are  dim,  and  his  head  is  white.  His  hands  are  not  strong.  His 


CALIFORNIA   POETS.  I'J 

pick  and  shovel  are  at  his  side.  His  feet  are  weary  and  sore. 
He  is  still  prospecting.  Pretty  soon  he  will  sink  his  last  pros 
pect  hole  in  the  Sierra. 

Some  younger  men  will  come  along,  and  lengthen  it  out  a 
little,  and  lay  him  in  his  grave.  The  old  miner  will  have  passed 
on  to  prospect  the  outcroppings  that  star  the  floors  of  heaven. 

He  is  not  numerous  now  ;  but  I  saw  him  last  summer  high  up 
on  the  head  waters  of  the  Sacramento.  His  face  is  set  forever 
away  from  that  civilization  which  has  passed  him  by.  He  is 
called  a  tramp  now.  And  the  new,  nice  people  who  have  slid 
over  -the  plains  in  a  palace  car  and  settled  down  there,  set  dogs 
on  him  sometimes  when  he  comes  that  way. 

I  charge  you,  treat  the  old  Californian  well  wherever  you  find 
him.  He  has  seen  more,  suffered  more,  practised  more  self- 
denial  than  can  now  fall  to  the  lot  of  any  man. 

I  never  see  one  of  these  old  prospectors  without,  thinking  of 
Ulysses,  and  wondering  if  any  Penelope  still  weaves  and  un 
weaves,  and  waits  the  end  of  his  wanderings.  Will  any  old 
blind  dog  stagger  forth  at  the  sound  of  his  voice,  lick  his  hand, 
and  fall  down  at  his  feet? 

No,  he  will  never  return.  He  has  not  heard  from  home  for 
twenty  years. 

And  though  he  may  die  there  in  the  pines  on  the  mighty 
mountain,  while  still  feebly  searching  for  the  golden  fleece,  do 
not  forget  that  his  life  is  an  epic,  noble  as  any  handed  down  from 
out  the  dusty  eld.  I  implore  you  treat  him  kindly.  Some  day 
a  fitting  poet  will  come,  and  then  he  will  take  his  place  among 
the  heroes  and  the  gods. 

But  there  is  another  old  Californian,  a  wearier  man,  the  suc 
cessful  one.  He,  too,  is  getting  gray.  But  he  is  a  power  in  the 
land.  He  is  a  prince  in  fact  and  in  act.  What  strange  fate  was 
it  that  threw  dust  in  the  eyes  of  that  old  Californian,  sitting  by 


1 8  EDMUND  RUSSELL'S  READINGS. 

the  trail  high  up  on  the  mountain,  and  blinded  him  so  that  he 
could  not  see  the  gold  just  within  his  grasp  a  quarter  of  a  century 
ago?  And  what  good  fairy  was  it  that  led  this  other  old  Califor- 
nian,  now  the  banker,  the  railroad  king,  or  senator,  to  where  the 
mountain  gnomes  had  hidden  their  gold  ? 

What  accidental  beggars  and  princes  we  have  in  the  world 
to-day !  But  whether  beggar  or  prince,  the  old  Californian 
stands  a  head  and  shoulders  taller  than  his  fellows  wherever  you 
may  find  him.  This  is  a  solid,  granite  truth. 

Our  dead  are  the  mighty  majority  of  old  Californians  !  No 
one  would  guess  how  numerous  they  are.  California  was  one 
vast  battle- field.  The  knights  of  the  nineteenth  century  lie  buried 
in  her  bosom  ;  while  here  and  there,  over  the  mountain-tops, 
totters  a  lone  survivor,  still  prospecting. 

The  Crusades  knew  not  braver  Knight 
Than  these  brave  men  before  her  walls ; 

The  noblest  in  the  old-time  fight 
Matched  not  the  humblest  here  that  falls. 

And  never  were  there  worn  such  scars 

As  these  won  in  these  nobler  wars. 

These  bloodless  wars,  that  bring  not  pain ; 

These  priceless  victories  of  Peace, 
Where  Pride  is  slain,  where  Self  is  slain, 

Where  Patience  hath  her  victories ; 
Where,  when  at  last  the  gates  are  down, 
You  have  not  burned,  but  built  a  town. 


And  well  this  Golden  State  shall  thrive,  if,  tikf 
Its  own  Mount  Shasta,  Sovereign  Law  shall  lift 
Itself  in  purer  atmosphere. 

JOHN  R.  RIDGE. 


MY  NEW  YEAR'S   GUESTS. 

ROLLIN    M.    DAGGETT. 


(Scene:  A  chamber  in  Virginia  City,  one  of  the  pictures  on  the  walls  being  the 
reduced  photographs  of  over  five  hundred  Californian  Pioneers  of  1849.  Time :  Midnight, 
December  31,  1881.) 


r  I  ""HE  winds  come  cold  from  the  southward,  with  incense  of  fir 

1     and  pine, 

And  the  flying  clouds  grow  darker,  as  they  halt  and  fall  in  line. 
The  valleys  that  reach  the  deserts,  the  mountains  that  greet  the 

clouds, 
Lie   bare   in   the  arms  of  Winter,  which   the  gathering  Night 

enshrouds. 
The  leafless  sage   on    the   hillside,  the  willows   low   down   the 

stream, 

And  the  sentry  rocks  above  us  have  faded  all  as  a  dream. 
And  the  fall  of  the  stamp  grows  fainter,  the  voices  of  night  sing 

low, 

And  spelled  from  labor,  the  miner  toils  through  the  drifting  snow. 
As  I  sit  alone  in  my  chamber,  this  last  of  the  dying  year, 
Dim  shades  of  the  past  surround  me,  and  faint  through  the  storm 

I  hear 

Old  tales  of  the  castles  builded  under  shelving  rock  and  pine, 
Of  the  bearded  men  and  stalwart,  I  greeted  in  forty-nine: 
The  giants  with  hopes  audacious,  the  giants  with  iron  limb, 
The  giants  who  journeyed  westward,  when  the  trails  were  new 

and  dim: 


2O  EDMUND    RUSSELL'S    READINGS. 

The  giants  who  felled  the  forests,  made  pathways  over  the  snows, 
And  planted  the  vine  and  fig-tree  where  the  manzanita  grows; 
Who  swept  down  the  mountain  gorges,  and  painted  the  endless 

night 
With  their  cabins  rudely  fashioned,  and  their  camp-fires'  ruddy 

light; 
Who  builded  great  towns  and  cities,  who  swung  back  the  Golden 

Gate, 

And  hewed  from  a  mighty  ashlar  the  form  of  a  sovereign  State; 
Who  came  like  a  flood  of  waters  to  a  thirsty  desert  plain, 
And  where   there  had  been  no  reapers  grew  valleys  of  golden 

grain. 

Nor  wonder  that  this  strange  music  sweeps  in  from  the  silent  past, 
And  comes  with  the  storm  this  evening  and  blends  into  strains 

with  the  blast; 
Nor  wonder  that  through  the  darkness  should  enter  a  spectral 

throng, 

And  gather  around  my  table  with  the  old-time  smile  and  song; 
For  there  on  the  wall  before  me,  in  a  frame  of  gilt  and  brown, 
With  a  chain  of  years  suspended,  old  faces  are  looking  down; 
Five  hundred  all  grouped  together  —  five  hundred  old  Pioneers  — 
Now  list  as  I  raise  the  taper  and  trace  the  steps  of  the  years ; 
Behold  this  face  near  the  center;  we  met  ere  his  locks  were  gray, 
His  purse  like  his  heart  was  open;  he  struggles  for  bread  to-day. 
To  this  one  the  fates  were  cruel,  but  he  bore  his  burden  well, 
And  the  willow  bends  in  sorrow  by  the  wayside  where  he  fell. 
Great  losses  and  grief  crazed  this  one,  great  riches  turned  this 

one' s  head ; 
And  a  faithless  wife  wrecked  this  one, —  he  lives,  but  were  better 

dead. 
Now  closer  the  light  on  this  face;  'twas  wrinkled  when  we  were 

young; 


CALIFORNIA    POETS.  21 

His  touch  drew  our  footsteps  westward;   his  name  is  on  every 

tongue. 

Rich  was  he  in  lands  and  kindness,  but  the  human  deluge  came, 
And  left  him  at  last  with  nothing  but  death  and  a  deathless  fame. 
'Twas  a  kindly  hand  that  grouped  them,  these  faces  of  other 

years ; 
The  rich  and  the  poor  together  —  the  hopes  and  the  smiles  and 

tears 

Of  some  of  the  fearless  hundreds  who  went  like  the  knights  of  old, 
The  banner  of  empire  bearing,  to  the  land  of  blue  and  gold. 
For  years  have  I  watched  these  shadows,  as  others  I  know  have 

done; 
As  death   touched   their   lips  with  silence,  I  have  draped  them 

one  by  one, 
Till,  seen  where  the  dark-plumed  angel  has  mingled  here  and 

there, 

The  brows  I  have  flecked  with   sable   cloud,  the  living  every 
where. 

Darker  and  darker  and  darker  these  shadows  will  yearly  grow 
As  changing  the  seasons  bring  us  the  bud  and  the  falling  snow; 
And  soon — let  me  not  invoke  it !  —  the  final  prayer  will  be  said, 
And  strangers  will  write  the  record,    ' '  The  last  of  the  group  is 

dead." 
And  then  —  but  why  stand  here  gazing?     A  gathering  storm  in 

my  eyes 

Is  mocking  the  weeping  tempest  that  billows  the  midnight  skies ; 
And,  stranger  still,  is  it  fancy  ?  —  are  my  senses  dazed  and  weak  ? 
The  shadowy  lips  are  moving  as  if  they  would  ope  and  speak, 
And  I  seem  to  hear  low  whispers,  and  catch  the  echo  of  strains 
That  rose  from  the  golden  gulches  and  followed  the  moving  trains. 
The  scent  of  the  sage  and  desert,  the  path  on  the  rocky  height, 
The  shallow  graves  by  the  road-side,  all,  all  have  come  back 

to-night; 


22  EDMUND    RUSSELL'S    READINGS. 

And  the  mildewed  years,  like  stubble,  I  trample  under  my  feet, 
And  drink  again  at  the  fountain,  when  the  wine  of  life  was  sweet; 
And  I  stand  once  more  exalted,  where  the  white  pine  frets  the 

skies 

And  dream  in  the  winding  cafion,  where  early  the  twilight  dies. 
Now  the  eyes  look  down  in  sadness,  the  pulse  of  the  year  beats 

low; 
The  storm  has  been  awed  to  silence;  the  muffled  hands  of  the 

snow, 

Like  the  noiseless  feet  of  mourners,  are  spreading  a  pallid  sheet 
O'er  the  heart  of  dead  December,  and  glazing  the  shroud  with 

sleet. 

Hark!  the  bells  are  chiming  midnight,  the  storm  bends  its  listen 
ing  ear, 
While  the  moon  looks  through  the   cloud-rifts  and  blesses  the 

new-born  year. 

Bar  closely  the  curtained  windows,  shut  the  light  from  every  pane, 
While  free  from  the  worldly  intrusion  and  curious  eyes  profane 
I  take  from  its  leathern  casket  a  dented  old  cup  of  tin, 
More  precious  to  me  than  silver,  and  blessing  the  draught  within, 
I  drink  alone  and  in  silence  to  the  "Builders  of  the  West" — 
4 '  Long  life  to  the  tiearts  still  beating,  and  peace  to  tfie  hearts  at 

rest." 


Prometheus-like,  must  we  with  hopeless  sighs, 
Chained  and  dejected,  pace  the  weary  round, 

Seeking  with  hungered  hearts  and  eager  eyes 
The  something  longed  for,  and  yet  never  found? 

Lucius  HARWOOD  FOOTK. 


THE    UNBORN    SOUL. 

CHARLES    H.     SHINN. 

IFE!  I  have  heard  strange  tales  of  you, 
Of  your  weird  winds,  and  starlit  dew, 
And  temples  wonderfully  cold ; 
Your  cities,  full  of  loneliness ; 
Your  twin  souls,  glad  in  one  caress ; 
Your  face's  passion,  worn  and  old. 

I  have  known  souls  that  came  from  you 
With  sad  brows  bound  with  weary  rue, 

And  after  them  a  weeping  came ; 
But  some  without  a  sound  go  by 
Crowned  with  unchallenged  purity, 

And  eyes  intense  with  sudden  flame. 

Blind  cravings  urge  me  in  my  dreams; 
I  am  not  yet,  but  still  it  seems 

I  shall  be  soon.     The  hidden  source 
Of  being  seems  to  slowly  fill ; 
I  wait  with  passive  yearning  still 

For  the  great  flood  of  human  force. 

The  souls,  as  yet  ungarmented, 

Press  round  me  without  noise  or  head ; 

And  there  is  one  dear  soul  who  saith 
That  she  will  clothe  herself  ere  long, 
And  if  I  guide  her  through  the  throng 

We  shall  have  love  through  life  and  death. 


O  tkov,  my  best-beloved  I  my  pride,  my  boasl; 

Stretching  thy  glorious  length  along  thf  14'est; 
Within  the  girdle  of  thy  sun-lit  coast, 

from  pine  to  palm,  from  palm  to  snowy  crett. 

CHAKLES  WARKBN  STODBAKD. 


EVENING. 

EDWARD   POLLOCK. 

'""THE  air  is  chill,  and  the  day  grows  late, 
1     And  the  clouds  come  in  through  the  Golden  Gate : 
Phantom  fleets  they  seem  to  me, 
From  a  shoreless  and  unsounded  sea ; 
Their  shadowy  spars  and  misty  sails, 
Unshattered,  have  weathered  a"thousand  gales ; 
Slow  wheeling,  lo  !  in  squadrons  gray, 
They  part  and  hasten  along  the  bay, 
Each  to  its  anchorage  finding  way. 
Where  the  hills  of  Saucelito  swell, 
Many  in  gloom  may  shelter  well ; 
And  others  —  behold  ! — unchallenged  pass 
By  the  silent  guns  of  Alcatraz  : 
No  greetings  of  thunder  r.nd  flame  exchange, 
The  arm6d  isle  and  the  cruisers  strange. 
Their  meteor  flags,  so  widely  blown, 
Were  blazoned  in  a  land  unknown  ; 
So,  charmed  from  war,  or  wind,  or  tide, 
Along  the  quiet  wave  they  glide. 


CALIFORNIA   POETS.  25 

What  bear  these  ships? — what  news,  what  freight, 
Do  they  bring  us  through  the  Golden  Gate? 
Sad  echoes  of  words  in  gladness  spoken, 
And  withered  hopes  to  the  poor  heart-broken. 
Oh,  how  many  a  venture  we 
Have  rashly  sent  to  the  shoreless  sea  ! 
How  many  an  hour  have  you  and  I, 
Sweet  friend,  in  sadness  seen  go  by  ; 
While  our  eager,  longing  thoughts  were  roving 
Over  the  waste,  for  something  loving, 
Something  rich,  and  chaste,  and  kind, 
To  brighten  and  bless  a  lonely  mind ; 
And  only  waited  to  behold 
Ambition's  gems,  affection's  gold, 
Return  as   "remorse,"  and  "a  broken  vow," 
In  such  ships  of  mist  as  I  see  now. 

The  air  is  chill,  and  the  day  grows  late, 
And  the  clouds  come  in  through  the  Golden  Gate, 
Freighted  with  sorrow,  heavy  with  woe ; 
But  those  shapes  that  cluster,  dark  and  low, 
To-morrow  shall  be  all  a-glow  ! 
In  the  blaze  of  the  coming  morn  these  mists, 
Whose  weight  my  heart  in  vain  resists, 
Will  brighten,  and  shine,  and  soar  to  heaven, 
In  thin  white  robes,  like  souls  forgiven ; 
For  heaven  is  kind,  and  every  thing, 
As  well  as  a  winter,  has  a  spring. 
So,  praise  to  God  !  who  brings  the  day, 
That  shines  our  regrets  and  tears  away ; 
For  the  blessed  morn  I  can  watch  and  wait, 
While  the  clouds  come  in  through  the  Golden  Gate. 


TTtis  I  beheld,  or  dreamed  it  in  a  dream  ; — 
There  spread  a  cloud  of  dust  along  a  plain  ; 
And  underneath  the  cloud,  or  in  it,  raged 
A  furious  battle,  and  men  veiled,  and  su'ords 
Shocked  upon  swords  und  shields.     A  prince's  bonnet 
Wavei  ed,  then  stagget  ed  backwards,  hemmed  by  foet. 
A  craven  hung  along  the  battle's  edge, 
And  thought,  "Had  1  a  sword  of  keener  stefl— 
That  blue  blade  that  the  king's  son  bears— but  this 
Blunt  thing — /"     He  snapt  and  flung  it  from  Ins  hand, 
And  lowering  crept  away  and  left  the  field 
Then  came  the  king's  son,  wounded,  sore  bestead, 
And  weaponless,  and  saw  the  broken  sword. 
Hilt-buried  in  the  dry  ana  trodden  sand, 
And  ran  and  snatched  it,  and  with  battle-shout 
Lifted  afresh  he  hewed  his  enemy  down, 
And  saved  a  great  cause  that  heroic  day. 

KDWAKD  ROWLAND  SILL. 


A    NEW    ITALY. 

LUCIUS   HARWOOD   FOOTE. 

AWAY,  upon  the  outmost  verge  of  sight, 
The  livelong  day,  at  that  far  height, 
An  eagle,  resting  on  his  wings, 
Wheels  round  and  round  in  circling  rings. 

In  pensive  mood,  I  turn  my  half-closed  eyes 
Across  the  hazy  lowlands,  leagues  away, 
Where  dim  ethereal  ramparts,  vast  and  gray, 

Rise  Alps  on  Alps,  against  the  vaulted  skies. 
I  mark  the  splendid  sweep  of  plain  below, 

The  miles  on  miles  of  undulating  hills, 

The  darker  gorges  of  the  upland  rills, 

The  sinuous  curves  where  tree-fringed  rivers  flow, 

In  all  methinks  I  see  the  counterpart 

Of  Italy,  without  her  dower  of  art. 

We  have  the  lordly  Alps,  the  fir-fringed  hills, 

The  green  and  golden  valleys  veined  with  rills, 


CALIFORNIA    POETS.  27 

A  dead  Vesuvius  with  its  smouldering  fire, 

A  tawny  Tiber  sweeping  to  the  sea. 
Our  seasons  have  the  same  superb  attire, 

The  same  redundant  wealth  of  flower  and  tree, 
Upon  our  peaks  the  same  imperial  dyes, 

And  day  by  day,  serenely  over  all, 
The  same  successive  months  of  smiling  skies. 
These  are  the  Alps,  and  these  the  Apennines ; 

The  fertile  plains  of  Lombardy  between  ; 
Beyond,  Val  d'Arno  with  its  flocks  and  vines, 
These  granite  crags  are  gray  monastic  shrines, 

And  far  to  seaward  can  be  dimly  seen 
The  marble  splendor  of  Venetian  courts  ; 
While  one  can  all  but  hear  the  mournful  beat 
Of  white-lipped  waves  along  the  sea-paved  street 

O  childless  mother  of  dead  empires,  we, 
The  latest  born  of  all  the  western  lands, 
In  fancied  kinship  stretch  our  infant  hands 

Across  the  intervening  seas  to  thee. 
Thine  the  immortal  twilight,  ours  the  dawn, 

Yet  we  shall  have  our  names  to  canonize, 

Our  past  to  haunt  us  with  its  solemn  eyes, 
Our  ruins,  when  this  restless  age  is  gone. 


O  leader  I  tried  and  true, 

What  words  may  speak  of  thee 

Last  sacrifice  divine-, 

L'fion  our  country's  shrine  t 

O  man  that  ttnverfd  above 
1  hy  fellow-men,  with  heart  the  tenderest, 
And  "  whitest  soul  the  nation  ever  knew/" 

Uraveit  and  kindliest  I 

We  lay  our  sorrow  down 

Bffore  thee  as  a  crown: 

We  fold  thee  with  our  love 
In  silence  I     Where  are  words  to  speak  of  thttf 

INA  LOOLBKITH, 


ABRAHAM    LINCOLN. 

JOSEPH   T.    GOODMAN. 

A  nation  lay  at  rest.     The  mighty  storm 
That  threatened  their  good  ship  with  direful  harm 
Had  spent  its  fury;  and  the  tired  and  worn 
Sank  in  sweet  slumber,  as  the  springtime  morn 
Dawned  with  a  promise  that  the  strife  should  cease; 
And  war's  grim  face  smiled  in  a  dream  of  peace. 
O !  doubly  sweet  the  sleep  when  tranquil  light 
Breaks  on  the  dangers  of  the  fearful  night, 
And,  full  of  trust,  we  seek  the  dreamy  realm 
Conscious  a  faithful  pilot  holds  the  helm, 
Whose  steady  purpose  and  untiring  hand, 
With  God's  good  grace,  will  bring  us  safe  to  land 
And  so  the  Nation  rested,  worn  and  weak — 
From  long  exertion  — 

God !  what  a  shriek 

Was  that  which  pierced  to  furthest  earth  and  sky, 
As  though  all  nature  uttered  a  death-cry! 
Awake!  arouse!  ye  sleeping  warders,  ho! 
Some  dire  calamity  has  passed  o'erhead  — 
A  world  is  shattered  or  a  god  is  dead ! 


CALIFORNIA   POETS.  2C, 

What !  the  globe  is  unchanged !  the  sky  still  flecked 
With  stars?     Time  is?     The  universe  not  wrecked? 
Then  look  ye  to  the  pillars  of  the  State ! 
How  fares  it  with  the  Nation's  good  and  great? 
Since  that  wild  shriek  told  no  unnatural  birth 
Some  mighty  soul  has  shaken  hands  with  earth. 

Lo !  murder  hath  been  done.     Its  purpose  foul 
Hath  stained  the  marble  of  the  Capitol 
Where  sat  one  yesterday  without  a  peer ! 
Still  rests  he  peerless  —  but  upon  his  bier. 
Ah  faithful  heart,  so  silent  now  —  alack! 
And  did  the  Nation  fondly  call  thee  back, 
And  hail  thee  truest,  bravest  of  the  land, 
To  bare  the  breast  to  the  assassin's  hand? 

And  yet  we  know  if  that  extinguished  voice 
Could  be  rekindled  and  pronounce  its  choice 
Between  this  awful  fate  of  thine,  and  one 
Retreat  from  what  thou  didst  or  wouldst  have  done, 
In  thine  own  sense  of  duty,  it  would  choose 
This  doom  —  the  least  a  noble  soul  could  choose. 

There  is  a  time  when  the  assassin's  knife 
Kills  not,  but  stabs  into  eternal  life; 
And  this  was  such  an  one.     Thy  homely  name 
Was  wed  to  that  of  Freedom,  and  thy  fame 
Hung  rich  and  clustering  in  its  lusty  prime; 
The  God  of  Heroes  saw  the  harvest-time, 
And  smote  the  noble  structure  at  the  root, 
That  it  might  bear  no  less  immortal  fruit. 


3O  EDMUND  RUSSELL'S  READINGS. 

Sleep !  honored  by  the  Nation  and  mankind ! 
Thy  name  in  History's  brightest  page  is  shrined, 
Adorned  by  virtues  only,  and  shall  exist 
Bright  and  adored  on  Freedom's  martyr  list. 
The  time  shall  come  when  on  the  Alps  shall  dwell 
No  memory  of  their  own  immortal  Tell ; 
Rome  shall  forget  her  Caesars,  and  decay 
Waste  the  Eternal  City's  self  away; 
And  in  the  lapse  of  countless  ages,  Fame 
Shall  one  by  one  forget  each  cherished  name, 
But  thine  shall  live  through  time,  until  there  be 
No  soul  on  earth  but  glories  to  be  free. 


THE    CHANDOS    PORTRAIT    OF    SHAKSPEARE. 

Lo !  on  the  wall,  in  mist  and  gloom  high  reared, 
A  luminous  Face  adorns  the  structure  hoary : 

Light-bearded,  hazel-eyed,  and  auburn-haired 
And  bright  with  a  strange  glory. 

Mightiest  of  all  — my  master !    Dare  but  I 

Touch  the  shrunk  chords  thy  hand  divine  hath  shaken,  — 
How  would  the  heroes  of  the  days  gone  by 

Throng  round  me,  and  awaken  I 

EDWARD  POLLOCK. 


Though  death  should  follow  —  one  kiss  for  the  olden, 

The  vanished  May  I 
And  let  it  be  sweet,  as  in  sunsets  golden  — 

The  self-same  way. 

DANIEL  O'CONNELL. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE   BULLET. 

BRET    HARTE. 

Ojoy  of  creation 
To  be! 

0  rapture  to  fly 

And  be  free! 

Be  the  battle  lost  or  won, 
Though  its  smoke  shall  hide  the  sun, 

1  shall  find  my  love — the  one 

Born  for  me! 

I  shall  know  him  where  he  stands, 

All  alone, 
With  the  power  in  his  hands, 

Not  o'erthrown; 
I  shall  know  him  by  his  face, 
By  his  god-like  front  and  grace; 
I  shall  hold  him  for  a  space, 

All  my  own! 

It  is  he — O  my  love 

So  bold! 
It  is  I — all  thy  love 

Foretold ! 

It  is  I.     O  love!  what  bliss! 
Dost  thou  answer  to  my  kiss! 
Oh  sweetheart!  what  is  this 

Lieth  there  so  cold? 


Superb  and  as  tvarm/v  while 

She  is  stately  and  grand 
As  the  ivory  Pallas  wrought 

By  Phidias'  hand  — 
And  each  pose  has  the  old-world  ft  act 

Of  the  Grecian  land, 

ANNIK  LAKE  TOWNSBNO. 


LIOLAN. 

JOHN  VANCE   CHENEY. 

SHORN  of  her  order  robe,  nigh  nude, 
Slow  up  the  long,  wide  aisle  they  led  her, 
Gently  led  Ihe  guardsmen  rude, 
Breathless  sat  the  multitude; 
Spotless  or  sullied,  awe  guards  ever 
Such  a  shape  of  womanhood. 

As  stands  the  solitary  pine 
She  stood,  unmoved,  casting  her  shadow; 

And  the  king  saw  each  curved  line 

Drunk  so  oft  in  costly  wine, 
And  with  him  gazed  his  mighty  minions, 

Spelled  by  that  dark  shape  divine. 

Only  the  queen  stared  cold  as  stone, 
Rigid  with  pride,  steel-hard  with  hatred; 

Liolan  had  brought  the  throne 

To  shame,  now  let  her  life  atone 
For  it.     And  this  her  lord  had  promised, 

For  her  honor  and  his  own. 


CALIFORNIA    POETS.  .      33 

To  death  the  king  doomed  Liolan, 
But  kings  must  doom  in  kingly  fashion: 
1 '  Woman,  merciful,  we  plan 

To  spare  thy  life  if  straight  the  man 
That  sinned  with  thee  appear  before  us. 

Bid  him  hither,  Liolan." 

Low  to  the  king  bowed  Liolan, 
Low  bowed,  and  turned  her  to  the  courtiers: 
"You  have  heard.     The  king  does  plan 

To  save  me.     If  I  bring  the  man, 
Remember  that  I  go  forth  scathless, 

Not  queen's  maid,  but  Liolan. 

"The  king  has  mercy;  since  so  dear 
Is  life,  you,  too,  will  mercy 

Show.     A  word  in  the  king's  ear, 

Then,  if  need  be,  instant  here 
Shall  be  the  one  with  me  in  evil." 

And  the  king  bade  her  draw  near. 

Lithe  as  the  supple  panther  can, 

She  glided,  leaned  her  on  the  monarch. 
What  the  flash,  the  fire  that  ran 
The  air  through !     "Look,"  cries  Liolan, 

Holding  on  high  the  jewelled  dagger, 
"At  your  feet,  knights,  lies  the  man." 


To  Judith  Berolde. 


O  tips  that  are  cold,  which  alone  could  now  blest  it 

As  once  it  was  blessed! 
O  hands  that  are  still,   which  alone  could  caress  it, 

As  once  they  caressed. 

LORENZO  Sosso. 


THE    CONFESSION. 

JOHN   VANCE   CHENEY. 

FATHER,  thy  face  were  not  more  pale 
Did  all  thy  flock  together  cry 
Their  sin.     Is  it  so  hard  a  tale? 

God's  servant,  what  if,  when  I  die, 
I  should  behold  Hell's  red  mouth  foam 
With  flutter  of  white  souls  thou  hast  chanted  home? 

Hear  me.     The  path  in  anguish  trod, 
That  night,  I  once  had  loved  it  so ! 

Now,  every  root  and  stone  and  sod, 
How  it  did  sting  me !     To  and  fro 

The  wild  trees  gestured  —  Arno's  name 

I  heard !     It  came,  and  instantly  a  flame, 

Knife-bright,  at  one  thrust  halved  the  dark, 
The  heavy-treading  thunder  crashed, 

Rushed  up;  my  very  blood  stopt;  stark 
I  stood  there,  rooted.     Loud  and  fast 

The  thunder  strode,  while  my  crazed  brain 

Made  the  thick  drops  my  tears  dashed  back  again. 


CALIFORNIA    POETS.  35 

How  long  it  was  I  know  not ;  all 

I  saw,  heard  all, — her  pleading  low, 
His  tender  answers.     White  and  small, 

She  hung  there.     'Twas  her  clinging  so 
That  set  me  on.     Oh,  her  breath  blew 
Against  me  fiercer  than  the  blast!     I  drew — 

Hark,  hark !     Teach  him  to  say  amen. 

How  long  must  he  the  moaning  make? 
Between  the  thunders  —  again  —  again! — 

Nay,  my  good  hand,  you  will  not  shake, 
You  had  not  got  one  little  speck 
But  for  the  pale  thing  clinging  round  his  neck. — - 

But  I  have  told  it,  holding  well 

To  truth ;  love,  father,  does  not  lie. 
Useful,  perhaps,  the  tale  to  tell 

The  goodly  people  by  and  by; 
Tell  them  I  kneeled  not,  nor  did  bow 
My  head,  nor  on  my  lips  take  any  vow. 

Nay,  let  us  have  a  brave  farewell, 

And  so  forget  the  olden  wrong. 
Tell  them  my  story,  father,  tell 

How,  glist'ning  still,  still  bright  and  strong, 
Thou  saw'st  the  good  blade  do  it.     Ay, 
'T  is  to  the  hilt — so  — so. — Father,  I  die. 


O  Egypt!  hmr  shall  v/f  approach  thy  face* 
HiKt-  stral  jtum  thy  dumb  hpf  one  scrap  o/  songf 

MIKAM  HOVT  RICHMOND. 


MOTHER    EGYPT. 

JOAQUIN   MILLER. 

DARK-BROWED  she  broods  with  weary  lids 
Beside  her  Sphynx  and  Pyramids, 
With  low  and  never-lifted  head. 
If  she  be  dead,  respect  the  dead; 
If  she  be  weeping,  let  her  weep; 
If  she  be  sleeping,  let  her  sleep ; 
For  lo,  this  woman  named  the  stars ! 

She  suckled  at  her  tawny  dugs 
Your  Moses  while  you  reeked  in  wars 

And  prowled  your  woods,  nude,  painted  thugs. 

Then  back,  brave  England;  back  in  peace 

To  Christian  isles  of  fat  increase ! 

Go  back !     Else  bid  your  high  priest  take 

Your  great  bronze  Christs  and  cannon  make; 

Take  down  their  cross  from  proud  St.  Paul's 

And  coin  it  into  cannon-balls ! 

You  tent  not  far  from  Nazareth. 

Your  camp  spreads  where  his  child-feet  strayed. 
If  Christ  had  seen  this  work  of  death ! 

If  Christ  had  seen  these  ships  invade ! 

I  think  the  patient  Christ  had  said, 
41  Go  back,  brave  men!     Take  up  your  dead; 
Draw  down  your  great  ships  to  the  seas : 
Repass  the  gates  of  Hercules. 


CALIFORNIA    POETS.  37 

Go  back  to  wife  with  babe  at  breast, 
And  leave  lorn  Egypt  to  her  rest." 
Is  Christ  then  dead  as  Egypt  is? 

Ah,  Mother  Egypt,  torn  to  twain ! 
There's  something  grimly  wrong  in  this  — 

So  like  some  gray,  sad  woman  slain. 

What  would  you  have  your  mother  do? 
Hath  she  not  done  enough  for  you? 
Go  back !     And  when  you  learn  to  read, 
Come  read  this  obelisk.     Her  deed 
Like  yonder  awful  forehead  is,— 
Disdainful  silence.     Like  to  this 
What  lessons  have  you  raised  in  stone 

To  passing  nations  that  shall  stand? 
Like  years  to  her's  will  leave  you  lone 

And  level  as  yon  yellow  sand. 

St.  George,  your  lions,  whence  are  they? 

From  awful,  silent  Africa, 

This  Egypt  is  the  lion's  lair; 

Beware,  young  Albion,  beware! 

I  know  the  very  Nile  shall  rise 

To  drive  you  from  this  sacrifice. 

And  if  the  seven  plagues  should  come, 

The  red  seas  swallow  sword  and  steed. 
Lo !  Christian  lands  stand  mute  and  dumb 

To  see  thy  more  than  Moslem  deed. 


302002 


Straight  to  his  hrart  the  bullet  crushed; 
Down  from  his  breast  the  red  blood  gushed. 
And  o'er  his  face  a  glory  rushed, 

A  sudden  spasm  shook  his  frame. 
And  in  his  ears  there  went  and  came 
A  sound  as  of  devouring  flame, 

Which  in  a  moment  ceased,  and  then 
The  great  light  clasped  his  brows  again. 

RICHARD  KEALF. 


ILLINOIS. 

JOAQUIN   MILLER. 

A  pistol  shot  next  my  own  garret  nest, 
And  with  face  like  a  god  he  lies  dead  and  alone; 
Lies  stark  on  his  back ;  a  hand  outthrown, 
As  disdaining  rest,  on  the  vanquished  breast, 
And  a  look  of  battle  in  his  glorious  eyes 
As  one  struck  dead  by  a  cannon  shot.     .     .     . 
Starved  or  dishonored?     It  matters  not; 
Nor  whether  betrayed  or  otherwise. 
I  only  know  that  he  fell  last  night; 
I  only  know  that  he  fights  no  more ; 
I  only  know  that  he  fell  in  the  fight, 
Fighting  as  never  fought  man  before. 

Shot  dead  in  the  fight !     Not  a  syllable  known 
Of  name  or  of  place.     But  scratched  on  the  wall 
With  a  nail,  "Illinois"  — and  that  is  all. 
Then  deep  in  the  window  stands  all  alone 
And  tattered  and  torn,  like  a  flag  in  war, 
One  starved  stalk  of  corn  in  a  broken  jar. 
O  banner  of  corn,  with  sweet  memories 
Of  mother  of  fields,  and  of  fruitful  trees ! 


CALIFORNIA   POETS.  39 

O  boy  from  the  furrows  of  Illinois ! 

0  boy  with  thy  banner  to  the  topmost  wall, 

1  will  nourish  this  corn,  poor,  pitiful  boy, 
Till  I,  too,  vanquished,  shall  fighting  fall. 

Good  mother,  that  waits  in  the  far  corn-fields, 

He  will  never  come  back  to  your  arms  any  more, 

Grow  lilies  for  him;  his  battles  are  o'er. 

He  is  borne  to  his  rest  on  his  battle-shield.     .     .     . 

Good  mothers  that  wait,  wherever  you  are, 

Oh !  pity  us,  pray  for  us  every  one 

That  has  left  sweet  fields  for  the  smoke  and  dun 

Of  the  City's  walls.     In  this  ceaseless  war, 

How  oft  we  have  cried :  O  Christ  for  the  fight ! 

When  soldiers  in  battle  rode  reckless  down 

And  stormed  in  a  day  and  so  took  the  town, 

Or,  sword  in  hand,  they  were  slain  outright! 

0  ye  in  the  beautiful  fields  of  corn, 
Content  and  tranquil  and  far  away, 

Lift  up  your  hearts  and  be  glad  all  day; 
Lift  up  moist  eyes  like  the  dews  of  morn ; 
For  I  tell  you  'tis  harder  to  win  a  town 
And  to  hold  it  for  even  a  year  your  own, 
Than  ever  were  gates  when  kings  went  down 
With  armies  and  banners  to  win  a  throne. 
Then  a  tear  for  the  soldier  who  fell  last  night, 
With  banner  of  corn  in  a  breach  of  the  wall; 
For  to  every  hundred  that  win  this  fight 

1  tell  you  a  hundred  thousand  fall. 


Hi 'i  fool-face  flushes  not  with  lovr. 

And  lie  whispers  a  name  in  his  -fine — 

The  white  moon  that  looked  from  above 
And  the  stars  knew  the  woman  is  mine. 

It  were  better  he  said  a  prayer: 

Were  the  man  not  a  fool,  he  would  feel 
A  shudder  of  death  in  the  air. 

And  the  sharp,  tuddn  tingle  of  steel. 

C.  H.  WBBB. 


COMO. 

JOAQUIN   MILLER. 

THE  red-clad  fishers  row  and  creep 
Below  the  crags,  as  half-asleep, 
Nor  ever  make  a  single  sound. 
The  walls  are  steep, 
The  waves  are  deep ; 
And  if  a  dead  man  should  be  found 
By  these  same  fishers  in  their  round, 
Why,  who  shall  say  but  he  was  drown' d? 

The  lakes  lay  bright  as  bits  of  broken  moon 

Just  newly  set  within  the  cloven  earth ; 

The  ripen' d  fields  drew  round  a  golden  girth 

Far  up  the  steeps,  and  glittered  in  the  noon ; 

And  when  the  sun  fell  down,  from  leafy  shore 

Fond  lovers  stole  in  pairs  to  ply  the  oar. 

The  stars,  as  large  as  lilies,  fleck' d  the  blue; 

From  out  the  Alps  the  moon  came  wheeling  through 

The  rocky  pass  the  great  Napoleon  knew. 


CALIFORNIA   POETS.  4! 

A  gala  night  it  was,  —  the  season's  prime. 

We  rode  from  castled  lake  to  festal  town, 

To  fair  Milan  —  my  friend  and  I ;  rode  down 

By  night,  where  grasses  waved  in  rippled  rhyme: 

And  so,  what  theme  but  love  at  such  a  time? 

His  proud  lip  curl'd  the  while  with  silent  scorn 

At  thought  of  love ;  and  then,  as  one  forlorn, 

He  sighed;  then  bared  his  temples,  dash'd  with  grey; 

Then  mock'd,  as  one  outworn  and  well  blasZ. 


A  gorgeous  tiger  lily,  flaming  red,  — 
So  full  of  battle,  of  the  trumpet's  blare, 
Of  old-time  passion, — uprear'd  its  head. 
I  gallop' d  past.     I  lean'd,  I  clutch' d  it  there 
From  out  the  long,  strong  grass.     I  held  it  high, 
And  cried:  "  Lo!  this  to-night  shall  deck  her  hair 
Through  all  the  dance.     And  mark !  the  man  shall  die 
Who  dares  assault,  for  good  or  ill  design, 
The  citadel  where  I  shall  set  this  sign." 

O,  she  shone  fairer  than  the  summer  star, 
Or  curl'd  sweet  moon  in  middle  destiny; 
More  fair  than  sun-morn  climbing  up  the  sea, 
Where  all  the  loves  of  Adriana  are. 
Who  loves,  who  truly  loves,  will  stand  aloof: 
The  noisy  tongue  makes  most  unholy  proof 
Of  shallow  passion.     .     .     .     All  the  while  afar 
From  out  the  dance  I  stood  and  watch' d  my  star, 
My  tiger  lily  borne  an  oriflamme  of  war. 


42  EDMUND  RUSSELL'S  READINGS. 

Adown  the  dance  she  moved  with  matchless  grace. 

The  world  —  my  world  —  moved  with  her.     Suddenly 

I  question' d  whom  her  cavalier  might  be? 

'Twas  he!     His  face  was  leaning  to  her  face! 

I  clutch' d  my  blade;  I  sprang;  I  caught  my  breath, — 

And  so,  stood  leaning  cold  and  still  as  death. 

And  they  stood  still.     She  blush' d,  then  reach' d  and  tore 

The  lily  as  she  pass'd,  and  down  the  floor 

She  strew'd  its  heart  like  jets  of  gushing  gore.     .     .     . 

'Twas  he  said  heads,  not  hearts,  were  made  to  break: 

He  taught  me  this  that  night  in  splendid  scorn. 

I  learn' d  too  well.     .     .    .    The  dance  was  done.    Ere  morn 

We  mounted  —  he  and  I  —  but  no  more  spake.     .     .     . 

And  this  for  woman's  love !     My  lily  worn 

In  her  dark  hair  in  pride,  to  then  be  torn 

And  trampled  on,  for  this  bold  stranger's  sake!     .     .     . 

Two  men  rode  silent  back  toward  the  lake ; 

Two  men  rode  silent  down  —  but  only  one 

Rode  up  at  morn  to  meet  the  rising  sun. 

The  red-clad  fishers  row  and  creep 
Below  the  crags,  as  half-asleep, 
Nor  ever  make  a  single  sound. 

The  walls  are  steep, 

The  waves  are  deep ; 
And  if  a  dead  man  should  be  found 
By  these  same  fishers  in  their  round, 
Why,  who  shall  say  but  he  was  drown' d? 


The  morning  breeze  sweeps  through  the  solemn  room, 
And  stirs  the  folds  that  wrap  the  dead  around. 

DANIEL  O'CONNELL. 


THE  PARTING  OF  ILMAR  AND  HAADIN, 

JOHN   VANCE   CHENEY. 


A^D  so  I  leave  you,  Ilmar.     That  queen  brow 
Where  diamond  light  were  pale  as  mist, 
I  yield  it  up  to  Death,  unkissed. 
He  took  you  from  me  —  his,  his  only,  now. 

I  will  not  share  with  Death,  be  his  alone; 
I  cannot  lay  on  that  still  hand 
My  hand,  and  you  not  understand  ; 

Be  what  you  were  to  me,  —  all,  all  his  own. 

Hark  !  the  night,  with  wet,  dishevelled  hair, 
On  her  black  path  at  large,  does  groan 
For  grief.  From  Haadin  not  a  moan  ; 

Great  love  meets  not  the  loss  too  great  to  bear. 

A  time,  I  thought  this  hand,  so  strong  to  slay, 
Would  clutch  at  my  dumb  throat  ;  even  so  ; 
I  was  that  weak.     Nay,  death  shall  know, 

He,  too,  I  loved  not  in  the  common  way. 

I  cover  —  so  —  your  face.     Thus  armed  with  love, 
Does  Haadin,  pagan,  with  his  face 
Against  the  hated  Christian  race, 

Front,  too,  the  Christian's  God,  who,  from  above, 

Can  see  and  suffer  it,  —  the  thing  I  do, 
Hiding  this  little  head  from  sight. 
I  cover  it,  so  bright,  so  bright  ! 

And  leave  you,  Ilmar.  —  No,  not  you,  not  you. 


To  strew  her  tomb  with  roses 

Pure  white,  as  virgins'  tombs  should  be, 
J  had  not  thought;  but  fate  disposes— 

Her  soul  was  virgin  unto  me. 

J.  R.  RIDGE. 

IN    VAIN. 

ADAH    ISAACS   MENKEN. 

I. 

O  foolish  tears  go  back ! 
Learn  to  cover  your  jealous  pride  far  down  in  the  nerveless 

heart  that  ye  are  Voices  lor. 
Your  sobbings  mar  the  unfinished  picture  that  my  trembling  life 

would  fill  up  to  greet  its  dawn. 
I  know,  poor  heart,  that  you  are  reaching  up  to  a  Love  that  finds 

not  all  its  demands  in  thy  weak  pulse. 
And  I  know  that  you  sob  up  your  red  tears  to  my  face;  because- 

because  —  others  who  care  less  for  his  dear  Love  may,  each 

day,  open  their  glad  eyes  his  lightest  wish  to  bless. 
But,  jealous  heart,  we  will  not  give  him  from  drops  that  overflow 

thy  rim. 
We  will  fathom  the  mysteries  of  earth,  of  air  and  of  sea,  to  fill  thy 

broad  life  with  beauty,  and  then  empty  all  its  very  depths  of 

light  deep  into  his  wide  soul ! 

'  ir. 
Ah  !     When  I  am  a  cloud  —  a  pliant,  floating  cloud  —  I  will  haunt 

the  sun -god  for  some  eternal  ray  of  Beauty. 
I  will  wind  my  soft  arms  around  the  wheels  of  his  blazing  chariot, 

till  he  robes  me  in  gorgeous  trains  of  gold ! 

I  will  sing  to  the  stars  till  they  crown  me  with  their  richest  jewels  ! 
I  will  plead  to  the  angels  for  the  whitest,  broadest  wings  that  ever 

walled  their  glorious  heights  around  a  dying  soul ! 
Then  I  will  flaunt  my  light  down  the  steep  grooves  of  space  into 

this  old  world,  until  Eyes  of  Love  will  brighten  for  me ! 


CALIFORNIA    POETS.  45 

III. 

When  I  am  a  flower  —  a  wild,  sweet  flower  —  I  will  open  my  glad 

blue  eyes  to  one  alone. 
I  will  bloom  in  his  footsteps,  and  muffle  their  echoes  with  my 

velvet  lips. 
So  near  him  will  I  grow  that  his  breath  shall  mark  kisses  on  all 

my  green  leaves ! 

I  will  fill  his  deep  soul  with  all  the  eternal  fragrance  of  my  love! 
Yes,  I  will  be  a  violet — a  wild,  sweet  violet — and  sigh  my  very 

life  away  for  him ! 

IV. 

When  I  am  a  bird  —  a  white-throated  bird  —  all  trimmed  in  plum 
age  of  crimson  and  gold,  I  will  sing  to  one  alone. 

I  will  come  from  the  sea — the  broad,  blue  sea — and  fold  my 
wings  with  olive-leaves  to  the  glad  tidings  of  his  hopes! 

I  will  come  from  the  forest — the  far  old  forest — where  sighs  and 
tears  of  reckless  loves  have  never  mourned  away  the  morning 
of  poor  lives. 

I  will  come  from  the  sky,  with  songs  of  an  angel,  and  flutter  into 
his  soul  to  see  how  I  may  be  all  melody  to  him ! 

Yes,  I  will  be  a  bird — a  loving,  docile  bird — and  furl  my  wild 
wings,  and  shut  my  sad  eyes  in  his  breast  1 

v. 

When  I  am  a  wave — a  soft,  white  wave — I  will  run  up  from 

ocean's  purple  spheres,  and  murmur  out  my  low,  sweet  voice 

to  one  alone. 
I  will  dash  down  to  the  cavern  of  gems  and  lift  up  to  his  eyes 

Beauty  that  will  drink  light  from  the  sun ! 
I  will  bring  blue  banners  that  angels  have  lost  from  the  clouds. 
Yes,  I  will  be  a  wave  —  a  happy,  dancing  wave  —  and  leap  up  in 

the  sunshine  to  lay  my  crown  of  spray-pearls  at  his  feet. 


46  EDMUND  RUSSELL'S  READINGS. 

VI. 

Alas!  poor  heart,  what  am  I  now? 

A  weed  —  a  frail,  bitter  weed  —  growing  outside  the  garden  wall. 

All  day  straining  my  dull  eyes  to  see  the  blossoms  within,  as  they 

wave  their  crimson  flags  to  the  wind. 

And  yet  my  dark  leaves  pray  to  be  as  glorious  as  the  rose. 
My  bitter  stalks  would  be  as  sweet  as  the  violet  if  they  could. 
I  try  to  bloom  up  into  the  light. 
My  poor  yearning  soul  to  Heaven  would  open  its  velvet  eyes  to 

fire. 
Oh  !  the  love  of  beauty  through  every  fibre  of  my  lonely  life  is 

trembling  ! 
Every  floating  cloud  and  flying  bird  draws  up  jealous  envy  and 

bleeding  Love! 
So  passionately  wild  in  me  is  this  burning,  unspeakable  thirst  to 

grow  all  beauty,  all  grace,  all  melody  to  one  —  and  to  him 

alone  1 


EL    VAQUERO. 

Tinged  with  the  blood  of  Aztec  lands, 
Sphinx-like,  the  tawny  herdsman  stands, 
A  coiled  reata  in  his  hands. 
Devoid  of  hope,  devoid  of  fear, 
Half  brigand,  and  half  cavalier,  — 
This  Helot,  with  imperial  grace, 
Wears  ever  on  his  tawny  face 

A  sad,  defiant  look  of  pain. 
Left  by  the  fierce  iconoclast 
A  living  fragment  of  the  past,  — 

Greek  of  the  Greeks  he  must  remain. 

Lucius  HARWOOD  FOOT 


Diviner  things  may  be,  more  high,  more  pure — 
The  glory  of  their  presence  is  not  mine ; 
Thou  art  of  Deity  all  that  form  can  take, 
And  I—am  Pagan  for  thy  sake. 

\V.  A.  KENDALL. 

Lay  his  velvet-soft  mouth  close  upon  mine,  hide 

ivith  his  hair  my  eyes. 
Wave  thy  dusky,  wide  wings  over  us  both,  shut 

out  the  starry  skies. 

PHILIP  SHIRLEY. 


THE    SPIRIT     LOVER. 

J.    H.    ROGERS. 


H 


E  comes  in  the  Night, 

Like  a  pure,  soft  light, 
And  hovers  around  me  while  sleeping ; 
Though  my  eye-lids  may  close 
In  their  earthly  repose, 
My  soul  knows  the  watch  he  is  keeping. 

From  the  pure  azure  skies, 

When  the  sunbeams  arise, 
I  see  his  light  spirit  descending; 

In  my  garden  of  flowers 

He  will  linger  for  hours, 
His  life  with  their  loveliness  blending. 

His  soul  comes  to  me, 

On  life's  troubled  sea, 
When  passion  waves  roll  in  their  madness; 

I  see  through  'the  storm 

His  bright  spirit  form 
Folding  my  soul  to  his  own  in  its  sadness. 


Keep  me  not  long  from  thet,  my  ou'n,  for  t 

Wait  at  the  threshold  of  Lovf's  golden  gate; 

O  let  me  enter  in  ere  it  be  late, 
And  the  dim  years,  like  stars,  fade  from  the  sky. 

LORENZO  Sosso. 

BALLAD    OF    LILIES. 

GKNEVIEVE    LUCILLE    BROWN. 

"  r^EHOLD  us  drooping  on  our  stately  stalks, 
£3     Fair  flowers  of  grace  in  rapturous  repose ; 
Plucked  in  Bermuda  from  cool,  quiet  walks, 
And  seeking  to  thy  bosom  to  disclose 
That  which  the  vaunting,  vain,  voluptuous  rose 

Could  never  to  thy  senses  half  convey ; 
A  message,  that  with  gentle  gladness  glows!" 
The  snow-white,  soft,  sweet-scented  lilies  say. 

"Each  flower  the  flaming  fire  of  passion  mocks, 

And  bids  thy  hot  hands,  trembling,  to  unclose, 
Nor  long  to  quiver  in  repeated  locks 

And  clasps,  which  but  increase  desire,  with  those 
That  sent  us  —  but  our  mystic  music  throws 

About  thee,  murmuring  low,  love's  langourous  lay, 
That  o'er  thee  like  a  day-dream  dimly  flows,"  — 

The  snow-white,  soft,  sweet-scented  lilies  say 

"Still  e'er  of  lingering  love  each  blossom  talks, 

And  tells  he  holds  thee  fairer  than  the  snows, 
Untouched  by  human  foot,  where  no  man  walks, 

He  sends  thee  joy  with  every  breeze  that  blows, 
And  constantly  with  thee  his  fond  heart  goes. 

His  thoughts  are  all  for  thee  at  dawn  of  day, 
Until  the  sinking  sun  portends  its  close," 

The  snow-white,  soft,  sweet-scented  lilies  say. 

L' ENVOI. 

Oh  lady,  heed !  where  this  love  lily  grows, 
A  heart  is  waiting — has  for  many  a  day, — 

For  answer  from  thee,  to  the  words  he  knows," 
The  snow-white,  soft,  sweet-scented  lilies  say. 


Will  your  face,  love,  then  be  fairer; 
Will  your  voice  be  sweeter,  rarer; 
Will  your  step  be  dearer,  lighter; 
Will  your  eyes  be  bluer,  brighter, 
After  death  f 

DANIEL  O'CONNELL. 


NIRVANA. 

CARRIE    STEVENS    WALTER. 
I. 

TO  cease  the  toil,  the  strife,  the  fierce  endeavor, 
To  close  sad,  tearful  eyes, 
To  fold  the  weary  hands  in  restful  stillness, 
After  death's  glad  surprise. 

ii. 

To  be  enmantled  by  the  cool  green  clover, 

In  hush  of  dreamless  rest, 
To  heed  no  more  the  mystery  of  Day's  dawning, 

Or  red  death  in  the  west. 

in. 

To  claim  a  kindred  with  the  stoic  mountain, 

In  placid  silentless, 
Or  of  the  rocks,  the  clouds,  the  turf,  the  grasses, 

Which  rain  and  wind  caress. 

IV. 

To  put  aside  the  strife  for  worldly  treasures, 

All  passionate  desire 
To  be  absolved  into  the  womb  of  nature, 

One  with  creative  fire. 


5O  EDMUND  RUSSELL'S  READINGS. 

v. 

To  be  embodied  in  the  trees  and  blossoms, 

Or  winds  and  rainbow  lights, 
The  psychic  essence  of  cloud-tints  and  sunshine, 

And  grace  of  swallow-flights. 

VI. 

To  see  the  end  clasp  hands  with  the  beginning,  — 

Life's  mystic  circle  wrought 
By  plan  Divine — each  earth-born  link  a  symbol 

With  deepest  meaning  fraught. 


TO  CLARA   MORRIS. 

We  bear  within  a  thwarted  life's  hard  ache, 

But  thou  our  pangs  that  dumbly  writhe  canst  make 

A  splendid,  palpable,  red  agony. 

Our  hearts  are  lighter  by  thy  anguished  cry. 

Thine  all  the  senses'  stormy  symphonies, 
The  crisis  of  our  morbid  modern  thought, 
A  panther's  grace,  convulsion  overwrought, 

Malady's  haggard  apotheosis — 

These  things  thine  art,  thy  nature  more  than  these. 

ANNIE  LAKE  TOWNSBND. 


This  is  the  reed  the  dead  musician  dropped, 
With  tuneful  magic  in  its  sheath,  still  hidden, 

The  ptompt  allegro  of  its  music  stopped, 
Its  melodies  unbidden. 

BRET  HARTS. 


INDIRECTION. 

RICHARD    REALF. 

FAIR  are  the  flowers  and  the  children,  but  their  subtle  sugges 
tion  is  fairer ; 
Rare  is  the  roseburst  of  dawn,  but  the  secret  that  clasps  it  is 

rarer ; 
Sweet  the  exultance  of  song,  but  the  strain  that  precedes  it  is 

sweeter  ; 

And  never  was  poem  yet  writ,  but  the  meaning  out-mastered  the 
metre. 

Never  a  daisy  that  grows,  but  a  mystery  guideth  the  growing  ; 
Never  a  river  that  flows,  but  a  majesty  sceptres  the  flowing ; 
Never  a  Shakespeare  that  soared,  but  a  stronger  than  he  did 

enfold  him ; 
Nor  never  a  prophet  foretells,  but  a  mightier  seer  hath  foretold 

him. 

Back  of  the  canvas  that  throbs  the  painter  is  hinted  and  hidden ; 
Into  the  statue  that  breathes,  the  soul  of  the  sculptor  is  bidden ; 
Under  the  joy  that  is  felt  lie  the  infinite  issues  of  feeling ; 
Crowning  the  glory  revealed  is  the  glory  that  crowns  the  revealing. 


52  EDMUND  RUSSELL'S  READINGS. 

Great  are  the  symbols  of  being,  but  that  which  is  symboled  is 

greater  ; 

Vast  the  create  and  beheld,  but  vaster  the  inward  creator; 
Back  of  the  sound  broods  the  silence,  back  of  the  gift  stands  the 

giving  ; 
Back   of  the  hand  that  receives  thrill  the  sensitive   nerves  of 

receiving. 

Space  is  nothing  to  spirit,  the  deed  is  outdone  by  the  doing  ; 
The  heart  of  the  wooer  is  warm,  but  warmer  the  heart  of  the 

wooing  ; 
And  up  from  the  pits  where  these  shiver,  and  up  from  the  heights 

where  those  shine, 
Twin  voices  and  shadows  swim  starward,  and  the  essence  of  life 

is  divine. 


OJALA! 


I  wish  I  knew  that  from  this  wearying  darkness, 

Through  which  I  grope  my  way, 
I'd  come  at  last  to  see  the  clear  blue  heavens, 

And  great  God's  perfect  day. 

ii. 

If  some  day  I  should  turn  from  toil  and  sadness, 

To  meet  your  clasping  hand, 
And  know  at  last  that  all  my  soul's  deep  longing 

Your  own  could  understand, — 


Could  I  but  know  in  some  far  sweet  morning 

We  should  stand  side  by  side, 
And  that  hour  find  all  Life's  questions  answered, 

1  would  be  satisfied. 

CARRIE  STEVENS  WALTER. 


Yet  dumb  I  sat  and  heard  Thy  precious  truth  denied, 

And  walked  in  pleasant  places,  while  Christs  were  crucified, 

JOSEPHINE  WALCOTT. 

O'  '  ershadowing  all  this  sacred  time 

Looms  the  great  tragedy  of  Love. 
I  feel  it,  as  thy  steps  sublime, 

Toward  Calvary  begin  to  move. 

SARAH  EDWARDS  HENSHAW. 


VIGILS    FOR    PASSION    WEEK. 

SARAH    EDWARDS    HENSHAW. 
VIGIL  I  —  PALM  SUNDAY. 

TO-DAY  o'er  Olivet  He  rode 
While  shouting  crowds  hosannas  sung; 
They  hailed  Him  King,  Messiah,  Lord, 

And  palms  of  victory  round  Him  flung; 
But  when  He  saw  the  city  proud, 
With  groans  and  tears  He  wept  aloud. 

VIGIL  II  —  MONDAY. 

To-day  He  gracious  ate  the  feast 

In  Bethany  which  Simon  gave. 
There  Lazarus  sate  —  O  awesome  guest! 

Lately  a  tenant  from  the  grave. 
And  Mary's  spikenard,  rich  and  rare, 
With  costly  fragrance  filled  the  air. 

VIGIL  III  —  TUESDAY. 

To-day  the  traffickers  He  scourged, 

Who  made  of  prayer  and  praise  a  gain; 

Sternly  God's  dwelling-place  He  purged 
Of  greed  and  worldliness  the  stain. 

Thus  scourge,  O  Lord  !  my  inmost  sin  ! 

Thus  purge,  O  Lord  !  my  soul  within. 


54  EDMUND  RUSSELL'S  READINGS. 

VIGIL  IV  — WEDNESDAY. 

To-day  He  sought  the  barren  tree, 
If  haply  fruit  might  on  it  grow, 

Though  fresh,  and  green,  and  fair  to  see, 

Its  promise  was  delusive  show. 
"No  fruit  henceforth" — its  fearful  meed; 

Soul !  O  my  Soul !  the  lesson  heed. 

VIGIL  V— THURSDAY. 

Himself  the  Paschal  lamb  divine, 
This  eve  the  Passover  they  eat, 

He  brake  the  bread,  he  bless' d  the  wine, 

He  dipped  the  sop,  the  hymn  rose  sweet, 

And  then,  O  then,  Gethsemane! 

Then,  Judas  and  his  treachery. 

VIGIL  VI  — GOOD  FRIDAY. 
Slow  beats  my  heart,  low  comes  my  breath, 

Thinking  of  what  was  this  day  done, 
Long  day  of  insult,  anguish,  death, 

From  morning  gray  to  set  of  sun, 
For  O  to-day  my  Savior  died ! 
To-day  my  Lord  was  crucified ! 

VIGIL  VII  — SATURDAY. 

Despair  is  on  His  brethren  now! 

"Alas,"  they  sigh,  "in  death  He  lies! 
No  scorching  splendors  decked  His  brow, 

No  flaming  angel  venged  His  cries! 
Thus  hoped  we  till  all  hope  has  fled! 
Now  all  is  over !  He  is  dead ! 


CALIFORNIA   POETS.  55 

VIGIL  VIII  — EASTER  SUNDAY  MORNING. 

O  joy !  O  joy !  O  happy  day ! 

His  tomb  is  empty!     Thanks  we  give! 
Angels  have  rolled  the  rock  away ! 
Mary  hath  seen  Him !     He  doth  live ! 
With  rapture  keen,  with  reverence  meet 
Let  us  fall  prostrate  at  His  feetl 


THE  MIRACLE   AT   CANA. 

Dear  Lord,  to  me, 
This  is  Thy  lesson  taught  in  Galilee ; 

By  gracious  deeds, 
To  fill  the  chalice  of  another's  needs. 

Within  to  bear 
That  beauty  which  transfigures,  and  makes  fair 

The  paths  of  men, 
Bidding  life's  desolate  places  to  bloom  again. 

No  heed  to  take 
For  the  uncertain  morrow,  but  to  make 

Life  more  divine, 
Turning  its  simplest  waters  into  wine. 

AMIE  S  PAGE. 


Was  the  snow  white  on  fields  and  rocks. 
Whereon  the  shepherds  watched  their  flocks 

In  the  mid-wintfr  night  t 

And  saw  the  angel,  clothed  in  white, 
The  heavenly  gates  that  opened  wide, 

In  midst  whereof  was  One 

They  dared  not  gone  upon  I 
Snow  hither,  thither,  and  afar. 
Beneath  the  new,  mysterious  start 

Snow  upon  Lebanon, 
Whose  cedars  stood,  a  crystal  net 
Of  frost-work,  beautiful  to  seet 

Snow  upon  Olivet — 

Snow  upon  Calvary  t 

INA  CooLBfUTH. 


THE  SUPPER  AT  EMMAUS. 

(A  Painting  by  Rembrandt) 
AMIE   S.    PAGE. 

NIGHT  fell  at  Emmaus,  and  they  sat  at  meat — 
The  one  Beloved  Guest 

Had  broken  bread,  and  blessed, 
And,  faint  with  journeying,  the  twain  did  eat. 

Half  doubting  and  half  awed, 

The  tender  converse  of  the  risen  Lord 
Had  moved  their  secret  wonder.     While  they  gaze, 
With  reverent  questioning,  on  the  matchless  face, 
A  sudden  stillness  falls  upon  the  place, 
And  in  their  trembling  hearts  vague  terror  wakes. 
They  search  the  empty  air  with  rapt  amaze, 

While,  on  the  dazzled  sight, 
Where  dwelt  the  hallowed  Presence — lo  !  there  breaks 

Ineffable  glory,  and  the  nameless  Light 


In  scenes  like  this  blind  Ossian  raised  the  note 
Of  old,  heroic,  plaintive  northern  song. 

B.  P.  AVKRY. 


MOUNT    TAMALPAIS. 

ELLA    STERLING    CUMMINS. 


HOME  of  the  elements  —  where  battling  bands 
Of  clouds  and  winds  the  rocks  defy  — 
Mute,  yet  great,  old  Tamalpais  stands 

Outlined  against  the  rosy  sky. 
His  darkened  form  uprising  there  commands 

The  country  round,  and  every  eye 
From  lesser  hills  he  strangely  seems  to  draw, 
With  lifted  glance  that  speaks  of  wonder  and  of  awe. 

n. 

It  is  the  awe  that  makes  us  reverence  show 
To  men  of  might,  who  proudly  tower 

Above  their  fellow-men ;  the  glance  that  we  bestow 
On  one  whose  native  force  and  power 

Have  lifted  him  beyond  the  race  below — 
The  pigmy  mortals  of  the  hour — 

We  almost  bend  the  knee  and  bow  the  head 

To  the  mighty  force  that  marks  his  kingly  tread. 


EDMUND  RUSSELL'S  READINGS 


HI. 

And  gazing  on  old  Tamalpais,  dark 

And  grand  in  all  his  stately  guise — 
His  head  among  the  clouds  —  a  hierarch 

Of  hills  —  we  envy  him  the  size 
Of  greatness,  fame  and  glory's  mark, 

When  there  appears  before  our  eyes, 
Beneath  the  grandeur  of  his  royal  crest, 
That  deep  grand  scar  upon  his  weary  breast 

rv. 

The  night  winds  steal  upon  us  from  the  sea, 

The  fogs  roll  in  like  forms  of  white, 
The  Mountain  slowly  fades  from  sight, 

The  careless  Heart  breaks  into  jubilee. 
Then,  why,  O  Heart,  desire  to  carve  a  lofty  name? 
Remember  still  the  scars,  as  well  as  joys,  of  Fame. 

v. 

The  sparks  of  lamp-light  leap  from  hill  to  hill — 
One  brilliant  star  comes  trembling  forth, 

A  cold  wind  blows  from  out  the  North, 
The  careless  Heart  rejoices  still. 

Then,  why,  O  Heart,  desire  to  feel  the  dazzling  flame? 

Remember  still  the  scars,  as  well  as  joys,  of  fame. 

VI. 

O  Tamalpais !  Mount  of  Eloquence ! 

Gazing  on  us  from  afar, 
What  gift  gives  Fame  as  recompense, 

For  wearing  of  that  deep-graved  scar? 


S&y  in  its  lucent  splendor  lifted, 

Higher  than  clouds  can  be  ; 
Air  with  no  breath  of  earth  to  stain  it, 

Pure  on  the  perfect  sea. 

E.  R.  SILL. 

Like  fields  of  clover  rippled  by  the  wind, 
Or  like  the  crested  foam  on  breaking  waves. 
They  come  as  white,  as  multitudinous. 

VIKNA  WOODS. 


SANTA    BARBARA. 

JOSEPHINE  WALCOTT. 

FAIR  is  she :  not  as  a  priestess  supernal  —  fair, 
With  calm,  white  splendor  of  a  soul  at  peace ; 
Not  as  a  chiseled  goddess  in  the  moveless  air 
Of  classic  halls,  or  old,  famed  haunts  of  Greece ; 
But  young,  glad  beauty,  so  lithesome  and  free, 
Her  garments  gemmed  with  pearls  of  the  sea; 
Her  hair  unbound  to  the  indolent  breeze, 
My  beautiful  queen  of  the  sunset  seas. 

True  is  she :  not  as  some  problem  difficult  of  old, 

That  sages  wrought  through  slow  lapse  of  years ; 
Not  with  the  dull  precision  of  a  tale  oft  told, 
Of  tender  hopes  wrecked  in  a  gulf  of  fears  ; 

But  true  as  the  sunbeams  that  sandal  her  feet, 
My  beautiful  queen,  so  loyal  and  sweet, 
True  as  the  light  on  her  health-blowing  hills, 
So  tender  her  pledge,  so  fleet  she  fulfills. 


6o  EDMUND  RUSSELL'S  READINGS. 

Pure  is  she  :  not  as  a  saint,  so  isolate  and  white, 

In  sacred  atmosphere  of  vestal  shrine, 
Where  incensed  tapers,  waning,  fling  an  astral  light, 
And  fretted  walls  of  alabaster  shine; 

But  pure  with  the  glitter  of  sea-blown  things, 
With  silvery  ripple  of  fount  and  springs, 
With  balms  that  waft  over  tropical  seas, 
With  calms  that  await  by  evergreen  trees. 

Wise  is  she :  with  myth  of  Druid  and  sylvan  faun 

And  fabled  wealth  of  Indian  lore ; 

Her  lavish  olive  slopes,  her  grain-land,  and  her  corn,  — 
Oh  golden  fruitage  on  a  golden  floor !  — 

Her  opulent  breath,  the  fragrance  of  wine, 
Her  sceptre  the  sumbeams,  her  helmet  the  vine, 
She  lingers  and  dreams  of  princes  to  be, 
My  beautiful  queen  of  the  sunset  sea. 


MENDOCINO. 

A  vast  cathedral  by  the  western  sea, 

Whose  spires  God  reared  in  majesty  on  high, 

Peak  after  peak  of  forests  to  the  sky, 
Blended  in  one  vast  roof  of  greenery. 
The  nave,  a  river  broadening  to  the  sea. 

The  aisles,  deep  canons  of  eternal  build; 

The  trancepts,  valleys,  with  God's  splendor  filled; 
The  shrines,  white  water-falls  in  leaf-laced  drapery. 
The  choir  stands  westward  by  the  sounding  shore, 

The  cliffs,  like  beetling  pipes  set  high  in  air, 

Roll  from  the  beach  the  thunders  crashing  there; 
The  high  wind  voices  chord  the  breaker's  roar ; 

And  wondrous  harmonies  of  praise  and  prayer 
Swell  to  the  forest  altars  —  evermore. 

LILIAN  HINMAN  SHUHY. 


Jfas  Life  been  fairer  than  it  seems f 
And  are  those  mighty  orbs  that  shine, 

But  splendid  fragments  of  the  dreams 
Jn  other  lives  that  once  were  minef 

Then  life  becomes  indeed  divine, 
And  everlasting  in  its  range ; 

And  I  can  claim,  each  star  as  mine, 
Forever  changing  without  change. 

LORENZO  Soiso. 


A   THOUGHT   OF    FAREWELL. 

CARRIE    STEVENS    WALTER. 

I  think,  my  friend,  the  Hindoo  version  wrong, 
Which  claims  Nirvana  is  forgetfulness,  — 
That  all  experience  of  the  ages  gone 

Leaves  not  one  memory  to  curse  or  bless. 

I  love  to  call  it  by  another  name,  . 

Nirvana —  "All-remembering"  —  "  All-divine," 
And  think  that  in  a  grander,  larger  life, 

A  clearer,  broader  memory  will  be  mine. 

That  all  I've  been,  along  the  countless  years 

Since  first  from  Chaos'  fount  my  being  sprang,  — 

That  all  I've  felt  of  joy  or  wept  of  tears, 

Or  known  of  love  or  disappointment's  pang, 

May  stand  to  me  in  that  clearer,  larger  life, 
For  some  grand  purpose  in  the  all-wise  plan, 

With  God's  good  reason  for  the  life  intense 
That  fierce  through  all  my  forms  of  being  ran. 


62  EDMUND    RUSSELL'S    READINGS. 

Then,  in  that  time,  I  know  that  not  the  least 
Of  memory's  bonds  that  unto  flower  expand, 

Will  be  your  friendship  and  your  aid  to  me 

Through  all  the  years,  since  first  a  kindly  hand,  - 

A  helping  hand,  that  was  a  guide  and  shield, 
You  reached  to  me,  —  a  searcher  for  the  light,  — 

An  humble  wayside  gleaner  in  the  field 

Wherein  you  labored  with  man's  glorious  might 

Then  every  cheering  tone,  —  your  words  of  praise, 
And  every  kindly  grasping  of  the  hand, 

Will  shine  as  stars  in  memory's  firmament, 
That  clasps  the  glory  of  Nirvana's  land. 


HUMILITY. 

Ensainting  all  the  visible  world,  the  dim 

And  reticent  night  upon  the  harvest  lands 

In  silent  benediction  lays  its  hands; 
Curved  as  the  chine  of  a  great  beast,  the  grim 
Hill  heaves  against  the  sky  its  shaggy  rim; — 

One  of  the  nights  when  Jupiter  commands 

Stars  as  the  sea's  incalculable  sands, 
Veiling  their  fires  in  fealty  to  him. 
Out  of  the  shadow-land  my  spirit  I  send 

Into  that  giant  scheme,  if  I  may  know 

The  meaning  and  the  majesty  aright 
In  vain,  alas!     I  cannot  comprehend, 

So  turn  me  to  the  earth  again,  and,  lo! 

A  glow-worm  proffering  its  friendly  light 

INA  LILLIAN  PETERSON. 


A  subtle  flame  in  the  lady's  eye — 
Unseen  by  the  courtiers  standing  by — 
Burned  through  his  lace  and  titled  wreath. 
Burned  through  his  body  s  jeweled  sheath. 
Till  it  touched  the  steel  of  the  man  beneath. 

BRET  HARTK 


MISSION    ROSES. 

DANIEL   O'CONNELL. 

PADRE   Mio,  by  the  Carmel  grows  the   pallid  Mission 
roses, 
Snugly  sheltered  by  the  willows,  where  the  shallow  river 

flows  ; 

Let  me  gather  some,  my  father,  for  our  pleasant  home  to 
night. 

See,  the  sun  has  but  just  vanished — there  is  plenty  time 
and  light. 

' '  I  will  shun  the  quicksand,  father,  and  return  to  kiss  you  soon ; 

Mission  roses  should  be  gathered  by  the  twilight  or  the 
moon. ' ' 

The  Don  Ramon's  only  daughter  kissed  the  old  man's  with 
ered  lips ; 

Deftly  rolled  the  cigaretto  in  her  dainty  finger  tips ; 

And  Don  Ramon,  smiling,  took  it  from  her  tiny  dimpled 
hand, 

Wondering  where  could  fairer  woman  be  found  in  all  the  land. 

' '  Mission  roses  should  be  gathered  by  the  twilight  or  the  moon," 
Hummed  the  old  ranchero's  daughter,  to  a  gay  Castilian  tune, 
A  roundelay  that  often,  in  proud,  romantic  Spain, 
Brought  blushing  face  to  lattice  from  the  window-pane. 


64  EDMUND  RUSSELL'S  READINGS. 

But  'tis  not  to  gather  roses  by  the  moon  or  waning  light, 

That  Inez,  dark-eyed  darling,  leaves  her  father's  porch  to 
night  ; 

Flowers  of  passion — poisonous  blossoms,  fatal  to  a  maiden's 
breast — 

Flowers  that  wither  when  we  grasp  them,  are  the  senorita's 
quest. 

Dense  and  tall  the  sheltering  willows  that  line  the  Carmel's 

bank; 
Ferns  and  mosses  grow  between  them  among  grasses  long  and 

dank; 

And  'mid  all  the  Mission's  roses,  pure  and  pallid  as  the  snow, 
Fill  the  air  with  tender  fragrance  by  the  current's  quiet  flow. 

"  Inez,  my  own  beauty,  my  alma  !"     And  her  face 
Is  fondly  then  uplifted  to  meet  his  quick  embrace. 

The  hours  wear  on,  she  lingers  till  the  August  moonlight  falls 
On  the  river,  on  the  roses,  on  the  Mission's  massive  walls. 

Flowers  of  passion  !    Ah  !  poor  roses  — '  mid  the  willows  you 

may  bloom  ; 

Never  Inez's  hand  shall  pluck  you,  by  the  twilight,  or  the 
moon. 


Many  days  and  nights  passed  over,  but  never  any  more 
The  erring  feet  of  Inez  passed  Don  Ramon's  arched  door, 
But  long  after,  when  the  strong  walls  were  leveled  to  the 

ground, 
And  Mission  bells  were  silent,   and   the   house  a  nameless 

mound, 


CALIFORNIA   POETS.  65 

A  woman,  wan  and  stricken,  prone  upon  the  ruin  lay, 

And   moaned,    and   wept,    and    muttered,    and    kissed  the 

crumbling  clay, 

And  sobbed  out  her  life  in  sorrow  for  shame  of  twenty  years — 
When  she  left  to  gather  roses,  and  found  disgrace  and  tears. 


THE    FAIR    TAMBOURINIST. 

So  beautiful,  yet  so  frail, 

So  willing,  and  yet  so  weak; 
O  what  if  the  heart  should  fail 

And  a  heavenly  purpose  break! 
And  the  dens  and  kennels  and  brothels  of  Hell 

Another  poor  victim  hold, 
A  celestial  spark  be  quenched  in  the  dark 

And  an  angel  bartered  for  goldl 

No  wonder  the  heart  should  fail 

And  a  heavenly  purpose  fade, 
The  eye  grow  dim  and  cheek  grow  pale, 

When  none  stand  ready  to  aid! 
No  wonder  the  lairs  and  the  cradles  of  Hell 

So  many  poor  victims  should  hold, 
When  the  good  are  content  to  worship  their  God 

And  the  rich  to  worship  their  gold! 


LYMAN  GOODMAN. 


So  floated  she,  the  earth  witch,  Circe  bold; 
And  still  on  islands  in  the  streams  of  time 
She  herds  her  droves,  and  singles  out,  as  then, 
Princes  of  men  to  add  unto  her  fold. 

IRENE  HARDY. 


A  CHRISTMAS  EVE  IN  THE  PALM  LAND. 

JOAQUIN   MILLER. 

THEIR  priests  are  many,  for  many  their  sins, 
Their  sins  are  many,  for  their  land  is  fair ; 
The  perfumed  waves  and  the  perfumed  winds, 
The  cocoa-palms  and  the  perfumed  air ; 
The  proud  old  Dons,  so  poor  and  so  proud, 
So  poor  their  ghosts  can  scarce  wear  a  shroud — 
This  town  of  Columbus  has  priests  and  prayer  ; 
And  great  bells  pealing  in  the  palm  land. 

A  proud  Spanish  Don  lies  shriven  and  dead  ; 

The  cross  on  his  breast,  a  priest  at  his  prayer ; 
His  slave  at  his  feet,  his  son  at  his  head  — 
A  slave's  white  face  in  a  mantle  of  hair ; 
A  slave's  white  face,  why,  a  face  as  white, 
As  white  as  that  dead  man's  face  this  night  — 
This  town  of  Columbus  can  pray  for  the  dead ; 

And  great  bells  booming  in  the  palm  land. 

The  moon  hangs  white  up  at  heaven's  white  door, 

Quite  dead  in  the  isle  of  the  great  warm  seas 
Lies  the  old  proud  Don,  so  proud  and  so  poor, 
And  two  quite  close  by  the  bed  on  their  knees ; 
The  slave  at  his  feet,  the  son  at  his  head, 
And  both  in  tears  for  the  proud  man  dead  — 
This  town  of  Columbus  has  tears  if  you  please ; 
And  great  bells  pealing  in  the  palm  land. 


CALIFORNIA    POETS.  67 

Aye,  both  are  in  tears ;  for  a  child  might  trace 

In  the  face  of  the  slave,  as  the  face  of  the  son, 
The  same  proud  look  of  the  dead  man's  face  — 
The  beauty  of  one ;  and  the  valor  of  one — 
The  slave  at  his  feet,  the  son  at  his  head, 
This  night  of  Christ,  where  the  Don  lies  dead  — 
This  town  of  Columbus,  this  land  of  the  sun 

Keeps  great  bells  clanging  in  the  palm  land. 

The  slave  is  so  fair,  and  so  wonderful  fair ! 

A  statue  stepped  out  from  some  temple  of  old  ; 
Why,  you  could  entwine  your  two  hands  in  her  hair. 
Nor  yet  could  encompass  its  ample,  dark  fold. 
And  oh,  that  pitiful,  upturned  face  ; 
Her  master  lies  dead — she  knows  her  place. 
This  town  of  Columbus  has  hundreds  at  prayer, 
And  great  bells  booming  in  the  palm  land. 

The  proud  Don  dead,  and  this  son  his  heir ; 

This  slave  his  fortune.     Now  what  shall  he  do? 
Why,  what  should  he  do?  or  what  should  he  care, 
Save  only  to  cherish  a  pride  as  true  ?  — 

To  hide  his  shame  as  the  good  priests  hide 
Black  sins  confessed  when  the  damned  have  died. 
This  town  of  Columbus  has  pride  with  her  prayer — 
And  great  bells  pealing  in  the  palm  land. 

Lo,  Christ's  own  hour  in  the  argent  seas, 
And  she,  his  sister,  his  own  born  slave ! 
His  secret  is  safe ;  just  master  and  she  ; 

These  two,  and  the  dead  at  the  door  of  the  grave  .  . 
And  death,  whatever  our  other  friends  do, 
Why,  death,  my  friend,  is  a  friend  most  true — 
This  town  of  Columbus  keeps  pride  and  keeps  prayer, 
And  great  bells  booming  in  the  palm  land. 


L'ndme  thy  fillet,  Love! 

I  would  no  longer  see: 
Cover  my  eyelids  close  awhile, 

And  make  me  blind  like  thee. 

Then  might  I  kiss  her  sunny  face, 

And  know  not  it  was  fair; 
Then  might  I  hear  her  voice,  nor  guess 

Her  starry  eyes  were  there. 

Lend  her  thy  fillet.  Love! 

Let  her  no  longer  see: 
ff  there  is  h'ipefor  me  at  all, 

She  must  be  blind  like  tliee. 

E.  R.  SILL. 

SESTINA. 

ANNIE   LAKE   TOWNSEND. 

BACK,  salt  and  bitter  fountain  of  my  tears, 
Thou  Marah  in  the  desert  of  my  heart. 
Hast  thou  slept  sealed  and  bound  these  many  years 

Now  into  passionate  flood-tide  to  start? 
Now,  when  the  hour  of  restfulness  appears? 
Now,  when  fair  love  has  bid  all  care  depart  ? 

Once  into  exile  me  Fate  bade  depart ; 

Unblest  I  fared,  incapable  of  tears  ; 
Still,  in  sleep,  broken  by  convulsive  start, 

I  live  in  dreams  again  those  weary  years ; 
Though  from  those  bitter  days  that  racked  my  heart 

No  shadow  now  upon  my  calm  appears. 

To-day  the  current  of  my  life  appears 

Smooth  as  a  summer-wasted  brook.    Depart 

Full  lightly,  down  Time's  sunny  slope  the  years. 
Yet,  —  yet,  —  for  slightest  cause  my  wayward  heart 

Burns  and  brims  over  with  these  torturing  tears, — 
The  lax  chords  into  strange  vibrations  start. 


CALIFORNIA   POETS.  69 

I  urge  my  mind's  swift  coursers  to  the  start; 

Perversely,  bitterly  beloved,  appears 
Ambition's  thong,  cutting  the  wretched  heart. 

The  race  begins,  the  blinding  mist  of  tears 
Would  dim  the  goal.     The  chariot  wheels  depart. 

Hail  to  the  Future.     Farewell,  vanished  years. 

But  stronger  than  oblivion  stand  the  years 

On  whose  gold  background  at  a  word  will  start 

The  stately  face  where  that  strong  love  appears 
That  kept  me  like  a  fortress.     I  depart 

Down  Life's  wild  road, — but,  deeper  than  all  tears 
That  love  throbs,  living,  in  my  stormy  heart. 

And,  but  for  that  I  would  have  slain  thee,  heart ! 

No  helper  thou  to  these  my  working  years. 
The  grasp,  the  poise,  the  force  of  thought  depart 

When  thine  inexorable  claim  appears. 
An  iron  nerve  shall  yet  control  thy  start, 

And  a  sealed  stone  the  fountain  of  my  tears. 

ENVOI. 

Sad  source  of  tears,  the  weakness  of  my  heart, 
At  this  new  start,  where  all  so  vague  appears, 
With  the  lost  years  I  bid  thee  hence  depart ! 


The  sestina  is  the  most  complicated  of  all  the  old  Provengal  forms  of  verse.  It  was 
invented  by  Arnauld  Daniel,  a  Provengal  Troubador  of  the  thirteenth  century.  It  consists 
of  six  six-lined  stanzas,  each  of  which  ends  with  the  same  six  words,  not  rhyming,  but 
arranged  in  a  prescribed  order,  and  it  concludes  with  an  envoi  of  three  lines,  containing 
all  six  of  the  final  words,  three  in  the  middle  of  the  lines  and  three  at  the  end.  There 
are  but  two  known  in  the  English  language,  Mr.  Swinburne  having  written  the  first  and 
Mr.  Edmund  Gosse  the  second.  This  is  the  third  ever  written  in  English. 


"  The  purple  violfts,  nntk  dnvy  lustre. 
So  like  to  eyes  I  know  ;' ' 

CARRIE  STEVENS  WALTER. 


IN    THE    SHADOW. 

(UN  SUENO  DE  LA  NOCHE.) 

CARRIE   STEVENS   WALTER. 

I. 

'OU  decked  my  breast  with  violets  last  night, 


Y' 


Their  haunting  sweetness  thrills  my  pulses  yet  — 
You  clasped  my  eager  hands  with  warm  caress 
And  kissed  the  sadness  from  my  eyelids  wet. 

n. 

My  soul  is  sad  at  memory  of  your  touch  ; 

Your  flowers'  rich  fragrance  fills  my  heart  with  pain ; 
The  look  of  pitying  kindness  in  your  eyes 

Will  never  come  to  gladden  me  again. 

in. 

For  all  the  sweetness  of  that  haunting  scene, — 

Your  thrilling  touch  —  your  violets'  purple  gleam  — 

The  glance  of  kindness  from  your  speaking  eyes, — 
Were  but  the  offspring  of  a  strange  sweet  dream. 

IV. 

I  wake  to  know  your  hand  can  ne'er  clasp  mine 
This  side  of  Life — this  side  of  Hope  and  Heaven; 

To  know  that  not  one  kindly  glance  of  yours 
Shall  ever  to  my  longing  eyes  be  given. 


CALIFORNIA   POETS.  7 1 

V. 

I  wake  to  take  my  burden  up  again, — 

Forgot  for  one  sweet  hour  of  warning  night, — 

My  weary  burden  of  heart  and  brain, 

And  do  my  duty  with  my  woman's  might 

VI. 

I  would  not  look  upon  your  face  again, — 

Your  strong,  grand  face  that  is  a  god's  to  me, — 

I  would  not  hear  the  magic  of  your  voice ; 
I  would  not  think  of  you,  nor  hear,  nor  see 

VII. 

One  spoken,  written  word  that  could  recall 

Your  memory  ;  for  only  thus  to  me 
Can  come  a  strength  to  do  my  daily  work, 

For  which  my  spirit  must  be  brave  and  free. 

VIII. 

You  came  into  my  life  for  one  brief  hour, 
Strong,  noble,  grand  as  any  god  could  be, 

And  all  the  currents  of  my  being's  tide, 

And  life  itself,  henceforth  were  changed  to  me. 

IX. 

You  came — and  passed.     Now  nevermore  to  me 
Can  come  the  clasping  of  your  firm  true  hand, — 

May  shine  the  tender  glory  of  your  eyes  — 
No  more  to  me,  this  side  of  Heavenly  Land. 

x. 
I  pray  for  strength, — I  would  be  firm  and  brave 

To  put  your  very  memory  away ; 
I  pray  for  strength,  and  it  is  granted  me 

To  meet  the  burdens  of  the  toilful  day. 


72  EDMUND  RUSSELL'S  READINGS. 

XI. 

But  dreaming  mystery  of  Night 

Such  visions  come,  sometimes  of  bliss  and  pain, 
That  with  the  dawning  of  another  day 

The  hard-won  battle  must  be  fought  again. 

XII. 

And  yet — until  we  both  shall  pass  the  bridge 
That  spans  the  mystic  gulf  from  shore  to  shore, 

There  must  remain  between  my  soul  and  yours 
The  bridgeless  sea  of  silence — evermore. 


HER  EXPLANATION. 

I  am  a  lost  illusion.    Some  strange  spell 
Once  made  your  friend  there,  with  his  fine  disdain 
Of  fact,  conceive  me  perfect.     He  would  fain 
(But  could  not)  see  me  always,  as  befell 

His  dream  to  see  me,  plucking  asphodel, 
In  saffron  robes,  on  some  celestial  plain. 
All  that  I  was  he  marred  and  flung  away, 

In  quest  of  what  I  was  not,  could  not  be, — 

Lilith,  or  Helen,  or  Antigone. 


SILL. 


In  Indian  Summer  retrospect  I  view 

1  lie  gorgeous  hours  my  wanton  luxury  slew. 

W.  A.  KENDALL. 


A    CYCLE. 

MILICENT   WASHBURN   SHINN. 
I. 

QPRING-TIME  —  is  it  spring-time? 

0  Why,  as  I  remember  spring, 
Almonds  bloom  and  blackbirds  sing ; 

Such  a  shower  of  tinted  petals  drifting  to  the  clovery  floor, 
Such  a  multitudinous  rapture  raining  from  the  sycamore ; 

And  among  the  orchard  trees  — 

Acres  musical  with  bees — 
Moans  a  wild  dove,  making  silence  seem  more  silent  than  before. 

Yes,  that  is  the  blackbird' s  note ; 

Almond  petals  are  afloat ; 

But  I  had  not  heard  or  seen  them,  for  my  heart  was  far  away. 
Birds  and  bees  and  fragrant  orchards  —  ah  !  they  cannot  bring  the 
May : 

For  the  human  presence  only 

That  has  left  my  ways  so  lonely, 
Ever  can  bring  back  the  spring-time  to  my  autumn  of  to-day. 

it. 

Autumn — is  it  autumn? 

1  remember  autumn  yields 
Dusty  roads  and  stubble-fields  ; 

Weary  hills,  no  longer  rippled  o'  er  their  wind-swept  slopes  with 

grain; 
Trees  all  gray  with  dust  that  gathers  ever  thicker  till  the  rain ; 


74  EDMUND  RUSSELL'S  READINGS. 

And  where  noisy  waters  drove 
Downward  from  the  heights  above, 
Only  bare  white  channels  wander  stonily  across  the  plain. 

Yes,  I  see  the  hills  are  dry, 
Stubble-fields  about  me  lie. 

What  care  I  when  in  the  channels  of  my  life  once  more  I  see 
Sweetest  founts  long  sealed  and  sunken  bursting  upward  glad  and 

free? 

Hills  may  parch  or  laugh  in  greenness, 
Sky  be  sadness  or  sereneness, 

Thou  my  life,  my  best  beloved,  all  my  spring-time  comes  with 
thee. 


# 


THE    CRICKET. 

The  twilight  is  the  morning  of  his  day : 

While  Sleep  drops  seaward  from  the  fading  shore, 

With  purpling  sail  and  dip  of  silver  oar, 
He  cheers  the  shadowed  time  with  roundelay, 
Until  the  dark  east  softens  into  gray. 

Now  as  the  noisy  hours  are  coming — hark! 

His  song  dies  gently  — it  is  getting  dark  — 
His  night  with  its  one  star,  is  on  the  way! 

Faintly  the  light  breaks  over  the  blowing  oats  — 

Sleep,  little  brother,  sleep:  I  am  astir. 
Lead  thou  the  starlit  night  with  merry  notes, 

And  I  will  lead  the  clamoring  day  with  rhyme: 
We  worship  Song,  and  servants  are  of  her — 
I  iri  the  bright  hours,  thou  in  shadow-time. 

CHARLES  EDWIN  MARKHAM. 


When  Jones  was  sixteen,  he  was  bent 
On  one  clay  being  President, 
When  from  his  toils  he  found  release, 
He  died— a  Justice  of  the  Peace. 

J.  F.  BOWMAN. 


FIVE    LIVES. 

EDWARD    ROWLAND   SILL. 

FIVE  mites  of  monads  dwelt  in  a  round  drop 
That  twinkled  on  a  leaf  by  a  pool  in  the  sun. 
To  the  naked  eye  they  lived  invisible ; 
Specks,  for  a  world  of  whom  the  empty  shell 
Of  a  mustard-seed  had  been  a  hollow  sky. 

One  was  a  meditative  monad,  called  a  sage  ; 
And,  shrinking  all  his  mind  within,  he  thought: 
"Tradition,  handed  down,  for  hours  and  hours, 
Tells  that  this  globe,  this  quivering,  crystal  world, 
Is  slowly  dying.     What  if,  seconds  hence, 
When  I  am  old,  yon  shimmering  dome 
Come  drawing  down,  and  down,  till  all  things  end?" 
Then  with  a  weazen  smirk  he  proudly  felt 
No  otfter  mote  of  God  had  ever  gained 
Such  giant  grasp  of  universal  truth. 

One  was  a  transcendental  mote ;  thin 

And  long  and  slim  in  the  mind ;  and  thus  he  mused : 
"Oh,  most  unfathomable  monad-souls! 

Made  in  the  image" — a  hoarse  frog  croaks  from  the  pool  — 
"Hark!  'twas  some  god,  voicing  his  glorious  thought 

In  thunder-music !     Yea,  we  hear  their  voice, 

And  we  may  guess  their  minds  from  ours,  their  work. 


76  EDMUND  RUSSELL'S  READINGS. 

Some  taste  they  have  like  ours,  some  tendency 
To  wriggle  about,  and  munch  a  trace  of  scum." 
He  floated  up  on  a  pin-point  bubble  of  gas 
That  burst,  pinched  by  the  air,  and  he  was  gone. 

One  was  a  barren-minded  monad,  called 
A  positivist ;  and  he  knew  positively : 
"There  is  no  world  beyond  this  certain  drop. 
Prove  me  another !     Let  the  dreamers  dream 
Of  their  faint  gleams,  and  noises  from  without, 
And  higher  and  lower ;  life  is  life  enough. ' ' 
Then  swaggering  half  a  hair's-breadth,  hungerly 
He  seized  upon  an  atom  of  a  bug,  and  fed. 

One  was  a  tattered  monad,  called  a  poet  ; 
And  with  shrill  voice  ecstatic  thus  he  sang: 
"Oh,  the  little  female  monad's  lips! 
Oh,  the  little  female  monad's  eyes! 
Ah,  the  little,  little,  female,  female  monad!" 

The  last  was  a  strong-minded  monadess, 
Who  dashed  among  the  infusoria, 
Danced  high  and  low,  and  wildly  spun  and  dove 
Till  the  dizzy  others  held  their  breath  to  see. 

v 
But  while  they  led  their  wondrous  little  lives 

Ionian  moments  had  gone  wheeling  by. 

The  burning  drop  had  shrunk  with  fearful  speed; 

A  glistening  film — 'twas  gone;  the  leaf  was  dry. 

The  little  ghost  of  an  audible  squeak 

Was  lost  to  the  frog  that  goggled  from  his  stone; 

Who,  at  the  huge,  slow  tread  of  a  thoughtful  ox 

Coming  to  dinner,  stirred  sideways  fatly,  plunged, 

Launched  backward  twice,  and  all  the  pool  was  still. 


The  tree-top,  high  above  the  barren  field, 
Rising  beyond  the  night' s  gray  folds  of  mist, 

Rests  stirless  where  the  upper  air  is  sealed, 
To  perfect  silence,  by  the  faint  moon  kissed. 

But  the  low  branches,  drooping  to  the  groundt 
Sway  to  ana  fro,  as  sways  funereal  plume, 

While  from  their  restless  depths  low  whispers  sound — 

"  We  fear,  we  fear  the  darkness  and  the  gloom." 

£.  R.  SILL. 


MORNING. 

EDWARD    ROWLAND   SILL. 

I  ENTERED  once,  at  break  of  day, 
A  chapel,  lichen-stained  and  gray, 
Where  a  congregation  dozed  and  heard 
An  old  monk  read  from  a  written  Word. 
No  light  through  the  window-panes  could  pass, 
For  shutters  were  closed  on  the  rich  stained  glass, 
And  in  a  gloom  like  the  nether  night, 
The  monk  read  on  by  a  taper's  light, 
Ghostly  with  shadows,  that  shrunk  and  grew 
As  the  dim  light  flared  on  aisle  and  pew ; 
And  the  congregation  that  dozed  around 
Listened  without  a  stir  or  sound — 
Save  one,  who  rose  with  wistful  face, 
And  shifted  a  shutter  from  its  place. 
Then  light  flashed  in  like  a  flashing  gem — 
For  dawn  had  come  unknown  to  them  — 
And  a  slender  beam,  like  a  lance  of  gold, 
Shot  to  the  crimson  curtain-fold, 
Over  the  bended  head  of  him 
Who  pored  and  pored  by  the  taper  dim ; 
And  I  wondered  that,  under  the  morning  ray, 
When  night  and  shadow  were  scattered  away, 
The  monk  should  bow  his  locks  of  white 
By  a  taper's  feebly  flickering  light — 
Should  pore  and  pore,  and  never  seem 
To  notice  the  golden  morning  beam. 


With  never  a  flower  save  those  that  Kg 
On  tht  distant  graves— for  love  could  buy 
No  gift  that  was  purer  or  truer. 

Bur  HAKTE. 


THE    YEARS. 

INA   COOLBRITH. 

WHAT  do  I  owe  the  years,  that  I  should  bring 
Green  leaves  to  crown  them  King? 
Blown,  barren  sands,  the  thistle,  and  the  brier, 

Dead  hope,  and  mocked  desire, 
And  sorrow,  vast  and  pitiless  as  the  sea : 
These  are  their  gifts  to  me. 

What  do  I  owe  the  years,  that  I  should  love 

And  sing  the  praise  thereof: 
Perhaps,  the  lark's  clear  carol  wakes  with  morn, 

And  winds,  amid  the  corn, 
Clash  fairy  cymbals ;  but  I  miss  the  joys, 

Missing  the  tender  voice — 
Sweet  as  a  throstle's  after  April  rain — 

That  may  not  sing  again. 

What  do  I  owe  the  years,  that  I  should  greet 

Their  bitter,  and  not  sweet, 
With  wine,  and  wit,  and  laughter?     Rather  thrust 

The  wine- cup  to  the  dust! 
What  have  they  brought  to  me,  these  many  years? 

Silence,  and  bitter  tears. 


God!  God.'   who  saith  God/ 

Js  it  sea  or  air? 
Audibly  above  the  sod 
Do  I  hear  it  everywhere 

In  the  air! 

LORENZO  Sosso. 


LA    FLOR    DEL    SALVADOR. 

INA    COOLBRITH. 


T 


HE  Daffodil  sang:  "Darling  of  the  sun 
Am  I,  am  I,  that  wear 
His  colors  everywhere." 


The  Violet  pleaded  soft,  in  undertone: 
"Am  I  less  perfect  made, 

Or  hidden  in  the  shade 
So  close  and  deep,  that  heaven  may  not  see 

Its  own  fair  hue  in  me?" 

The  Rose  stood  up,  full-blown, 

Right  royal  as  a  Queen  upon  her  throne : 

"Nay,  but  I  reign  alone," 
She  said,  "with  all  hearts  for  my  very  own." 
One  whispered,  with  faint  flush,  not  far  away, 

' '  I  am  the  eye  of  day, 
And  all  men  love  me;"  and,  with  drowsy  sighs, 

A  Lotus,  from  the  still  pond  where  she  lay, 
Bieathed,  "I  am  precious  balm  for  weary  eyes.'* 


EDMUND  RUSSELL'S  READINGS. 

Only  the  fair  Lily,  slim  and  tall, 

Spake  not,  for  all  ; 

Spake  not  and  did  not  stir, 
Lapsed  in  some  far  and  tender  memory, 

Softly  I  questioned  her, 
"And  whatofthee?" 

And  winds  were  lulled  about  the  bended  head, 
And  the  warm  sunlight  swathed  her  as  in  a  flame, 

While  the  awed  answer  came, 
"Hath  HE  not  said?" 


CHORUS   OF   AMAZONS. 

Oh!  the  sea  was  gray  when  the  early  mist 

Wrapped  it  heavily  in  a  shroud; 
And  the  waves  were  red  by  the  red  dawn  kissed, 

And  myriad  colors  'neath  sun  and  cloud. 
The  waters  amber  at  blaze  of  noon, 

Turned  crimson  under  the  sunset  bars, 
And  pale  and  ghostly  beneath  the  moon, — 

And  black,  when  the  vapors  had  hid  the  stars. 
The  blue  and  green  of  a  cloudless  day, 

Shifted  and  changed  like  the  dolphin's  hues; 
The  billows  that  rose  and  floated  away, 

Were  tinted  and  dyed  like  the  rainbow's  dews. 
Oh!  life  is  gray  when  the  heart  is  sad, 

And  aflame  when  hope  is  enthroned  above, 
It  has  shifting  colors  when  hours  are  glad, 

And  is  turned  to  gold  by  the  light  of  love. 
It  is  pale  and  haggard  with  doubts  and  fears, 

It  is  crimson  with  passion  and  black  with  sin; 
It  ebbs  and  flows  with  the  tide  of  years, 

And  none  can  fathom  the  deeps  within. 

VIRNA  WOODS. 


A  star  starts  yonder  like  a  foul  afraid  I 

It  falls  like  a  thought  thro'  the  great  profound 

JOAQUIN    MlLLBR. 


TO  THE   COLORADO   DESERT. 

MADGE   MORRIS   WAGNER. 

THOU  brown,  bare-breasted,  voiceless  mystery, 
Hot  sphynx  of  nature,  cactus-crowned,  what  hast  thou  done? 
Unclothed  and  mute  as  when  the  groans  of  chaos  turned 
Thy  naked  burning  bosom  to  the  sun. 
The  mountain  silences  have  speech,  the  rivers  sing, 
Thou  answerest  never  unto  anything. 
Pink-throated  lizards  pant  in  thy  slim  shade ; 
The  horned  toad  runs  rustling  in  the  heat ; 
The  shadowy  gray  coyote,  born  afraid, 
Steals  to  some  brackish  spring,  and  laps,  and  pro\\ '. 
Away,  and  howls  and  howls  and  howls  and  howls, 
Until  the  solitude  is  shaken  with  an  added  loneliness. 
Thy  sharp  mescal  shoots  up  a  giant  stalk, 
Its  century  of  yearning  to  the  sunburnt  skies, 
And  drops  rare  honey  from  the  lips 
Of  yellow  waxen  flowers,  and  dies. 
Some  lengthwise  sun-dried  shapes  with  feet  and  hands, 
And  thirsty  mouths  pressed  on  the  sweltering  sands, 
Make  here  and  there  a  gruesome  graveless  spot 
Where  some  one  drank  thy  scorching  hotness,  and  is  not. 
God  must  have  made  thee  in  His  anger,  and  forgot. 


Out  on  a  world  that's  gone  to  weed! 

The  great  tall  corn  is  still  strong  in  his  seed; 

Plant  her  breast  with  laughter,  put  song  in  your  toil, 

The  heart  is  still  young  in  the  good  mother-soil: 

There's  sunshine  and  bird-song,  and  red  and  while  clover, 

And  love  lives  yet,  world  under  and  over. 

The  light 's  white  as  ever,  sow  and  believe  ; 

Clearer  dew  did  not  glisten  round  Adam  and  Eve. 

Never  bluer  heavens  nor  greener  sod 

Since  the  round  world  rolled  from  the  hand  of  God: 

There 's  a  sun  to  go  down,  to  come  up  again. 

There  are  new  moons  to  fill  when  the  old  moons  wane. 

JOHN  VANCX  CJUNEY. 


PETER   COOPER. 

JOAQUIN   MILLER. 

GIVE  honor  and  love  forevermore 
To  this  great  man  gone  to  rest ; 
Peace  on  the  dim  Plutonian  shore, 
Rest  in  the  land  of  the  blest. 

I  reckon  him  greater  than  any  man 
That  ever  drew  sword  in  war ; 

I  reckon  him  nobler  than  king  or  khan, 
Braver  and  better  by  far. 

And  wisest  he  in  this  whole  wide  land 
Of  hoarding  till  bent  and  gray  ; 

For  all  you  can  hold  in  your  cold  dead  hand 
Is  what  you  have  given  away. 

So,  whether  to  wander  the  stars  or  to  rest 

Forever  hushed  and  dumb, 
He  gave  with  a  zest  and  he  gave  his  best, 

And  deserves  the  best  to  come. 


GOLD. 

Gold,  gold!  thou  'rt  a  curse — yet  a  blessing  with  treasures  untold. 

Old!  cold!  but  waking  the  furious  flames  of  desire! 
Leaving  in  ashes  each  heart  that  tastes  of  thy  liquid  fire. 

Dream  of  the  youth  and  the  sage,  oh,  beautiful,  syren  gold! 

MARY  LAMBERT. 

Abu- H&riri —  world  renowned — 
Tells  how  a  starving  Arab  found 
A  diamond,  lying  on  the  ground. 

"  Oh,  if  this  shining  stone,  instead. 
Were  but  a  single  date,"  he  said, 

"A  cruse  of  oil,  a  crust  of  bread!" 

Lucius  HARWOOD  FOOTS. 


THE    MILLIONAIRE. 

JOAQUIN    MILLER. 

THE  gold  that  with  the  sunlight  lies 
In  bursting  heaps  at  dawn, 
The  silver  spilling  from  the  skies 

At  night  to  walk  upon, 
The  diamonds  gleaming  with  the  dew 
He  never  saw,  he  never  knew. 

He  got  some  gold,  dug  from  the  mud, 

Some  silver,  crushed  from  stones. 
The  gold  was  red  with  dead  men's  blood, 

The  silver  black  with  groans. 
And  when  he  died  he  moaned  aloud, 
"God!  but  they've  put  no  pocket  in  my  shroud!" 


When  the  grass  shall  cover  me, 

Hvlden  close  to  earth's  warm  bosom; 
While  I  laugh,  or  weep,  or  sing, 
Nevermore,  for  anything, 

You  will  find  in  blade  and  blossom, 
Sweet  small  voices  ordorous, 
Tender  pleaders  in  my  cause, 
That  shall  speak  me  as  I  was  — 

When  the  grass  grows  over  me. 

INA  COOLBRITH. 
"And yet  did. ye  stone  your  prophets? 


FI  N  ALE. 

JOAQUIN   MILLER. 

WHEN  ye  have  conned  the  hundredth  time 
My  sins  and  sagely  magnified 
Your  oft-told  fictions  into  crimes 

Dark  planned,  and  so  turned  all  aside, 
Why  then  have  done,  I  beg,  I  pray. 

These  shadows  ye  have  fashioned  lie 
So  heavily  along  my  way. 

And  I  would  fain  have  light :     And  I 
Would  fain  have  love  :     Have  love  one  little  hour 

Ere  God  has  plucked  my  day,  a  tearful  flower. 

Ah  me  !     I  mind  me  long  agone, 

Once  on  a  savage  snow-bound  height 
We  pigmies  pierced  a  king.     Upon 

His  bare  and  upreared  breast  till  night 
We  rained  red  arrows  and  we  rained 

Hot  lead.     Then  up  the  steep  and  slow 
He  passed ;  yet  ever  still  disdained 

To  strike,  or  even  look  below. 
We  found  the  grizzly  high  'mid  clouds  next  morn 

And  dead,  in  all  his  silent,  splendid  scorn. 


CALIFORNIA    POETS.  85 

So  leave  me,  as  the  edge  of  night 

Comes  on  a  little  time  to  pass, 
Or  pray.     For  steep  the  stony  height 

And  torn  by  storm,  and  bare  of  grass 
Or  blossom.     And  when  I  lie  dead 

Oh,  do  not  drag  me  down  once  more. 
For  Jesus'  sake  let  my  poor  head 

Lie  pillowed  'mid  these  stones.     My  store 
Of  wealth  is  these.     I  earned  them.     Let  me  keep 

Still  on  alone,  on  mine  own  star-lit  steep. 


THE   MUSIC   OF   MACBETH. 

O  Melody,  what  children  strange  are  these 
From  thy  most  vast,  illimitable  realm ! 
These  sounds  that  seize  upon  and  overwhelm 
The  soul  with  shuddering  ecstasy !     Lo,  here 
The  night  is,  and  the  deeds  that  make  night  fear; 

Wild  winds  and  waters,  and  the  sough  of  trees 

Tossed  in  the  tempest;  wail  of  spirits  banned, 
Wandering,  unhoused  of  clay  in  the  dim  land; 

The  incantation  of  the  Sisters  Three, 

Nameless  of  deed  and  name  —  the  mystic  chords; 
Weird  repetitions  of  the  mystic  words; 
The  mad,  remorseless  terrors  of  the   Thane, 
And  bloody  hands,  which  bloody  must  remain; 
Last,  the  wild  march,  and  battle  hand  to  hand 

Of  clashing  arms  in  awful  harmony, 

Sublimely  grand,  and  terrible  as  grand! 

The  clan  cries;  the  barbaric  trumpetry; 

And  the  one  fateful  note,  that,  throughout  all, 
Leads,  follows,  calls,  compels,  and  holds  in  thrall. 

To  Edgar  S.  Kelly.  INA  COOLBRITH. 


Nvw  Mars  steals  over  the  water; 

He  is  marching  down  from  the  sky  — 
Great  Mars,  with  his  golden  helmet 

And  the  golden  flame  in  his  eye. 

CHARLES  WAKKEN  STODUARD. 


THE    PASSING   OF   TENNYSON. 

JOAQUIN    MILLER. 

WE  knew  it,  as  God's  prophets  knew; 
We  knew  it,  as  mute  red  men  know, 
When  Mars  leapt  searching  heaven  through 

With  flaming  torch,  that  he  must  go. 
Then  Browning,  he  who  knew  the  stars, 
Stood  forth  and  faced  insatiate  Mars. 

Then  up  from  Cambridge  rose  and  turned 
Sweet  Lowell  from  his  Druid  trees  — 

Turned  where  the  great  star  blazed  and  burned, 
As  if  his  own  soul  might  appease. 

Yet  on  and  on  through  all  the  stars 

Still  searched  and  searched  insatiate  Mars. 

Then  stanch  Walt  Whitman  saw  and  knew; 

Forgetful  of  his  "Leaves  of  Grass," 
He  heard  his  "Drum  Taps,"  and  God  drew 

His  great  soul  through  the  shining  pass, 
Made  light,  made  bright  by  burnished  stars, 
Made  scintillant  from  flaming  Mars. 


CALIFORNIA   POETS.  87 

Then  soft- voiced  Whittier  was  heard 

To  cease;  was  heard  to  sing  no  more; 
As  you  have  heard  some  sweetest  bird 

The  more  because  its  song  is  o'er. 
Yet  brighter  up  the  street  of  stars 
Still  blazed  and  burned  and  beckoned  Mars. 


And  then  the  king  came ;  king  of  thought, 
King  David  with  his  harp  and  crown. 

How  wisely  well  the  gods  had  wrought 
That  these  had  gone  and  set  them  down 

To  wait  and  welcome  'mid  the  stars 

All  silent  in  the  sight  of  Mars. 

All  silent.     .     .     .     So,  he  lies  in  state.     . 

Our  redwoods  drip  and  drip  with  rain. 
Against  our  rock-locked  Golden  Gate 

We  hear  the  great  sad  sobbing  main, 
But  silent  all.     .     .     .     He  walked  the  stars 
That  year  the  whole  world  turned  to  Mars. 


POETRY. 

She  comes  in  husht  beauty  like  the  night, 

And  sees  too  deep  for  laughter; 
Her  touch  is  a  vibration  and  a  light, 

From  world's  before  and  after. 

(Prize  Quatrain.)  CHARLES  EDWIN  MARKHAM 


Sifitet  on  an  unseen  finger, 
Prophecy  from  heaven's  own  portal, 
Some  by  winged  worlds  immortal. 

ANNA  M.  FITCH. 


OLD     GLORY. 

(Chant- RoyaL) 
EMMA    FRANCES    DAWSON. 

ENCHANTED  web !     A  picture  in  the  air, 
Drifted  to  us  from  out  the  distance  blue 
From  shadowy  ancestors,  through  whose  brave  care 

We  live  in  magic  of  a  dream  come  true — 
With  Covenanters'  blue,  as  if  were  glassed 
In  dewy  flower-heart  the  stars  that  passed. 

O  blood- veined  blossom  that  can  never  blight  1 

The  Declaration,  like  a  sacred  rite, 
Is  in  each  star  and  stripe  declamatory, 

The  Constitution  thou  shalt  long  recite, 
Our  hallowed,  eloquent,  beloved  "Old  Glory!" 

O  symphony  in  red,  white,  blue! — fanfare 

Of  trumpet,  roll  of  drum,  forever  new 
Reverberations  of  the  Bell,  that  bear 

Its  tones  of  Liberty  the  wide  world  through ! 
In  battle  dreaded  like  a  cyclone  blast. 
Symbol  of  land  and  people  unsurpassed, 

Thy  brilliant  day  shall  never  have  a  night. 

On  foreign  shore  no  pomp  so  grand  a  sight, 
No  face  so  friendly,  naught  consolatory 

Like  glimpse  of  lofty  spar  with  thee  bedight, 
Our  hallowed,  eloquent,  beloved  "Old  Glory!" 


CALIFORNIA   POETS.  89 

Thou  art  the  one  Flag,  an  embodied  prayer, 
One,  highest  and  most  perfect  to  review ; 

Without  one,  nothing;  it  is  lineal,  square, 
Has  properties  of  all  the  numbers,  too — 

Cube,  solid,  square  root,  root  of  root;  best-classed 

It  for  His  Essence  the  Creator  cast. 
For  purity  are  thy  six  stripes  of  white, 
This  number  circular  and  endless  quite — 

Six  times,  well  knows  the  scholar  wan  and  hoary, 
His  compass-spanning  circle  can  alight — 

Our  hallowed,  eloquent,  beloved  "Old  Glory  1'* 

Boldly  thy  seven  lines  of  scarlet  flare; 

As  when  o'er  old  centurion  it  blew 
(Red  is  the  trumpet's  tone,  it  means  to  dare!) 

God  favored  seven  when  creation  grew; 
The  seven  planets;  seven  hues  contrast; 
The  seven  metals ;  seven  days ;  not  last 

The  seven  tones  of  marvelous  delight 

That  lend  the  listening  soul  their  wings  for  flight ; 
But  why  complete  the  happy  category 

That  gives  thy  thirteen  stripes  their  charm  and  might? 
Our  hallowed,  eloquent,  beloved  "Old  Glory  1" 

In  thy  dear  colors,  honored  everywhere, 

The  great  and  mystic  ternion  we  view; 
Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity  are  numbered  there, 

And  the  three  nails  the  Crucifixion  knew. 
Three  are  offended  when  one  has  trespassed, 
God,  and  one's  neighbor  and  one's  self  aghast; 


90  EDMUND  RUSSELL'S  READINGS. 

Christ's  deity,  and  soul,  and  manhood's  height; 

Father,  Son,  and  Ghost  may  here  unite, 
With  texts  like  these,  divinely  monitory, 

What  wonder  that  thou  conquerest  in  fight, 
Our  hallowed,  eloquent,  beloved  "Old  Glory!" 

ENVOI. 

O  blessed  Flag !  sign  of  our  precious  Past, 

Triumphant  Present,  and  our  Future  vast, 

Beyond  starred  blue  and  bars  of  sunset  bright 
Lead  us  to  higher  realm  of  Equal  Right! 

Float  on,  in  ever  lovely  allegory, 

Kin  to  the  eagle,  and  the  wind,  and  light, 

Our  hallowed,  eloquent,  beloved  "Old  Glory!" 


THE  SLEEPING  PRINCESS. 

But  half  a  century  ago  she  lay 

All  mutely  beautiful,  in  rich  attire, 

The  sleeping  Princess,  California. 

Not  yet  had  come  the  voice,  not  yet  the  touch, 

That  was  to  thrill  her  waking  soul  with  joy; 

Not  yet  the  virgin  lips  had  felt  the  kiss 

That  was  to  bring  her  full  ecstatic  life. 


ALICE  EDWARDS  PKATT. 


Ah  God!  and  yet  we  know 
It  was  no  dream  in  those  days  long  ago! 

It  was  no  dream,  the  beat 
To  arms,  the  steady  tramp  along  the  street. 
A0  dream  the  banners,  flinging,  fresh  and  fair, 

Their  colors  on  the  air, 

.\'ot  stained  and  worn  like  these 

Returning  witnesses, 
With  sad,  dumb  lips,  most  eloquent  of  those 

Returning  nevermore  I 

INA  COOLBBITH. 

They  may  not  wake  again! 
But  from  the  precious  soil, 

Born  of  their  toil, 
Nursed  with  what  crimsom  rain, 
We  pluck  to-day  the  snow-white  flower  of  peace. 

INA  COOI.BRITH. 


DECORATION    DAY. 

EMMA    FRANCES    DAWSON. 

•"Not  forgot,  O  Fingal,  shall  we  ascend  these  winds? 
Our  deeds  are  streams  of  light  before  the  eyes  of  thirds." 

(OSSIAN'S  FEMORA.) 
Music. 

WEIRD  call  of  loon, 
Beneath  the  moon, 
O'er  wind  at  sea  a-swoon, 
Seems  mystic  tune, 
That  fails  too  soon, 
Of  the  ghost- voiced  bassoon. 

GHOSTS. 

"Comedown!     Come  up/ 

Float  from  far  cloud-land  space  — 
Fall  into  line  by  phantom  fife  and  drum. 

For  some  of  ^ls  ' '  tis  all  of  heaven's  grace 
That  once  a  year  we  come,  Horse,  Foot,  we  come, 

To  swell  the.  marching  columns  whose  regret 

Takes  shape  in  lily,  rose  or  violet. ' ' 


;2  EDMUND    RUSSELL'S    READINGS. 

Music. 

Hark !  the  grum, 
Rolling  thrum, 
Controlling  hum 
Of  the  drum, 

Whose  rumbling,  seldom  dumb, 
Or  overcome, 

To  muffling  must  succumb! 


Underneath  the  mourning  pennon 
Bursts  the  thunder  of  the  cannon ! 

MEN. 

"We  bring  the  white  tents  of  ihefaur  </<?  /is, 

The  trumpet-flowers  with  their  scarlet  flare, 
The  battle-giant  rose,  the  blood-root — see! 
All  other  blossoms  sweet,  or  gay,  or  rare. 
The  bloom,  our  love,  the  music,  our  despair. 
Rich  sound  and  scent  for  those  who  passed  away, 
Like  echoes  and  like  fragrance  of  their  day." 

Music. 

See  the  sheen 
Of  the  keen 
Bright  bayonets  that  careen 

Over  shoulder  set  to  shoulder, 
As  one  soldier  all  convene, 

The  whole  heart  of  the  nation  beating: 
"Keep  their  memory  green:" 
Thus  between 
Steps  serene 
Throbs  the  tinkling  tambourine. 


Under  palpitating  pennon 
Comes  majestic  roar  of  cannon ! 


CALIFORNIA    POETS.  93 

Proud  eyes  are  wet, 
And  lips  stern  set, 
While  memories  beset, 
At  haunted  tones  of  tender  voice  of  charm6d  clarionet 

GHOSTS.     • 

"  Strange  rmtsicians  mingling,  bring 
Instruments  with  muted  string. 
Cornet,  hautboy,  places  own, 
Sign  a  fanfare  silent  blown. 
Kettle-drum,  triangle,  beat 
(Soundless  cheat! ) 
For  noiseless  feel." 

Music. 

As  army  of  the  pines 
Murmurs  of  broken  lines, 

On  mountain-brow  a  blood-red  sunset  sky  defines, 
So  deep  the  pathos  born 
Of  muffled  voice  forlorn 
Poured  from  the  eerie  horn. 


With  a  straining  of  each  pennon. 
Urgent  clamor  of  the  cannon! 

I  n  clang  sublime 

The  cymbals  fiercely  chime: 
With  rise  and  fall 
The  trumpets  call — 
The  bugles  over  all. 
"Oh,  could  our  sigh 

But  soar  on  high, 

The  dead  might  feel  us  nigh !" 


94  EDMUND  RUSSELL'S  READINGS, 

GHOSTS. 
"Line  upon  line,  rushing  ghosts,  we  advance — 

Endless,  in  squadrons,  in  columns,  battalions, 
Infantry / — shadows  with  shadowy  lance; 
Cavalry. f — phantoms  of  riders  and  stallions; 
Flying  Artillery! — heroes,  rapscallions! 
Vaporous,  wind-shaken,  nebulous,  grand, 
Close  by  your  ranks  move  the  spectral  command" 

Music. 
Irresolute, 

How  loud,  then  mute, 
Like  twilight  winds'  dispute 
Athwart  deserted  battle-field — thus  sobs  and  grieves  the  flute! 

MEN. 

' '  What  recollections  thrill  our  souls  to-day ! 

Too  much  for  words  are  love  and  long  regret. 
They  are  not  dead,  though  lost  in  bloody  fray;. 

While  we  remember  they  are  living  yet, 
Could  they  but  know  that  we  do  not  forget ! 

Strange  chill  is  on  us  in  this  driving  mist. 

Great  God!  it  half  outlines  an  army  tryst  1" 


Under  sadly  drooping  pennon 
Rises  sullen  blasts  of  cannon  1 

Music. 

Mark  the  present, 

Scarce  quiescent, 

Evanescent, 

Ardent,  incandescent, 
Like  remembrances,  incessant, 

Quick  liquescent, 
Pleasant  jingle  of  the  Turkish  crescent! 


CALIFORNIA    POETS.  95 

Like  one  who,  prone 

On  desert-sands  alone, 
Implores  the  Sphynx  with  urgent  moan, 
So  questions  Fate  the  mighty  tone 

Of  sorrowful  trombone ! 


"Farewell"  in  touching  fantasy, 
Outbursts  the  storm  of  musketry ! 

GHOSTS. 

"How  dim  becomes  this  vision  that  we  see, 

Though  close  the  blossoms  borne  by  love  and  pify, 
Though  near  the  rhythms  of  PleyeV  s  ecstacy. 

'  Tis  like  faint  bells  rung  in  a  sunken  city, 
As  frail  and  formless  as  a  wordless  ditty. 

We  waver  in  the  blast  of  cannonade; 
Unseen,  unheard,  we  share  your  melancholy; 
And,  all  unwilling,  rise  at  parting  volley 

That  wafts  on  winds  our  whole  brigade J" 


GRAVES. 

No  mound,  no  stone,  no  violets, 

No  wind,  nor  wave,  nor  star, 
A  spot  where  memory  forgets 

What  spring  and  summer  are ; 
Deeper  it  lies  than  deep  sea  graves, 

From  land  and  sea  apart, 
O,  grave  so  sad  and  desolate, 

O,  grave  within  the  heart. 

CLARENCB  UKMY. 


Didst  tver  think  how  souls  have  fixe, 
And  weight  and  measure,  in  God's  eyes, 
So  different  from  weight  and  span 
And  measure  given  them  by  man  t 

JOAQUIN  MILLER. 


THE    FOOL'S    PRAYER. 

EDWARD    ROWLAND   SILL. 

THE  royal  feast  was  done.     The  King 
Sought  some  new  sport  to  banish  care, 
And  to  his  jester  cried :    "Sir  Fool, 

Kneel  now,  and  make  for  us  a  prayer!" 

He  bowed  his  head,  and  bent  his  knee 
Upon  the  monarch's  silken  stool ; 

His  pleading  voice  arose  :    "  O  Lord, 
Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool ! 

"No  pity,  Lord,  could  change  the  heart 

From  red  with  wrong  to  white  as  wool ; 
The  rod  must  heal  the  sin  ;  but,  Lord, 
Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool ! 

"  'Tis  not  by  guilt  the  onward  sweep 

Of  truth  and  right,  O  Lord,  we  stay ; 
'Tis  by  our  follies  that  so  long 

We  hold  the  earth  from  heaven  away. 

"These  clumsy  feet,  still  in  the  mire, 

Go  crushing  blossoms  without  end ; 
These  hard,  well-meaning  hands  are  thrust 
Among  the  heart-strings  of  a  friend. 


CALIFORNIA    POETS.  97 

"The  ill-timed  truth  we  might  have  kept — 

Who  knows  how  sharp  it  pierced  and  stung? 
The  word  we  had  not  sense  to  say  — 
Who  knows  how  grandly  it  had  rung? 

"Our  faults  no  tenderness  should  ask, 

The  chastening  stripes  must  cleanse  them  all ; 
But  for  our  blunders — oh,  in  shame 
Before  the  eyes  of  heaven  we  fall. 

"Earth  bears  no  balsam  for  mistakes; 

Men  erown  the  knave  and  scourge  the  tool 
That  did  his  will ;  but  Thou,  O  Lord, 
Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool ! ' ' 

The  room  was  hushed ;  in  silence  rose 

The  King,  and  sought  his  gardens  cool, 
And  walked  apart,  and  murmured  low, 
"Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool !" 


CRITIC   AND    POET. 

A  poet  sat  in  solitude 

Playing  a  faint  prelude  — 
Snatches  of  tunes  and  faltering  words, 
And  one  or  two  grand  chords — 

And  angel  lips  to  his  young  ears  bent, 

As  he  touched  the  instrument. 

A  critic,  skilled,  and  learned  and  strong 

(But  who  never  sang  a  song), 
Aimed  a  cruel  arrow  carelessly 
As  ihe  shy,  stray  strain  iloated  by; 

Jt  brushed  the  whispering  spirit's  wing, 

It  broke  the  best  and  finest  string, 

And  sent  the  young  heart  sorrowing; 
And  angel  songs,  that  the  poet  heard, 
Never  found  tone  or  word. 

EMILIE  LAWSON 


Bored  to  death.     O  love  and  sleep  and  dinn-  rf 

What  can  reach  this  mood  that  hovereth  t 
What  can  rouse  the  melancholy  sinner 

Bored  to  death  t 

In  the  days  of  Queen  Elizabeth 
Did  ennui  make  Leicester  any  thinner  f 

Did  he  find  the  sweetest  speech  mete  breath 
Sometimes*    Nothing  saith  thf  tireless  spinner 

Histoiy,  yet  nothing  contra  saith. 
Adam  must  have  been  the  first  beginner 
Sored  to  death. 

ANNIE  LAKE  TOWNSEND. 


CHORUS  OF  AMAZONS. 

VIRNA    WOODS. 

WE  have  known  thee,  O,  Life  !  thou  art  sweet 
To  the  lips  as  the  heart  of  a  flower ; 
But  the  breath  of  thy  perfume  is  fleet, 
And  thy  joy  is  the  bloom  of  an  hour. 
We  have  known  thee,  O,  Life  !  thou  art  fair, 
But  thy  beauty  the  sirens  had ; 
And  stained  are  the  robes  thou  dost  wear ; 
We  have  known  thee,  O,  Life  !  thou  art  sad. 
We  have  known  thee,  O,  Life  !  thou  art  strong; 
Thou  art  strong  and  thy  burdens  are  great ; 
We  have  feared  thee  and  worshiped  thee  long, 
For  thy  form  is  the  shadow  of  Fate. 
Thou  hast  given  us  faith  as  a  gem ; 
It  was  lost  in  the  flush  of  the  morn  ; 
And  virtue,  a  garment  whose  hem 
Was  unspotted,  the  storm-winds  have  torn. 
Thou  has  given  us  love  as  a  flower ; 
It  has  withered  and  died  on  the  breast ; 
Thou  hast  given  us  riches  and  power ; 
They  have  vanished  as  foam  from  the  crest. 


CALIFORNIA    POETS.  99 

Thou  hast  given  us  hope  as  a  staff ; 
It  is  trampled  and  broken  by  fears ; 
And  the  red  wine  of  pleasure  to  quaff;    . 
It  is  darkling,  and  bitter  with  tears. 
Thou  hast  given  us  fame  as  a  crown, 
But  hast  tarnished  its  glory  with  rust ; 
Thou  hast  sprinkled  the  robes  of  renown 
With  the  soil  of  thy  ashes  and  dust. 
We  have  known  thee,  O  Life !  thou  art  fleet, 
And  the  span  of  thy  race  is  a  breath ; 
We  have  followed  the  path  of  thy  feet, 
And  the  goal  that  thou  seekest  is  death. 


WHICH  IS  BEST? 

Up  to  the  stars  yon  mountain  seems  to  rise, 
And  two  are  hastening  toward  its  distant  blue; 
One  ever  keeps  the  far-off  peak  in  view, 

With  silent  resolution  in  his  eyes. 

The  other  longs  to  reach  the  mountain,  too, 
But  oh,  the  sunshine  is  so  warm  and  sweet, 
The  birds  sing  o'er  his  head,  and  at  his  feet, 

The  blossoms  smile  through  tender  tears  of  dew. 

At  last  they  part,  and  when  the  day  is  done, 
Upon  the  barren  mountain,  rough  and  steep, 

One  rests;  and  in  the  sun-warmed  valley  one; 
And  both  lie  down  that  night  in  peaceful  sleep. 

Choose,  heart!    Two  paths  there  are — one  toil,  one  rest, 

And  they  are  Love  and  Fame — but  which  is  best? 

SEDDIE  E.  ANDF.RSON. 


ACHILLES. 

Lift  not  thy  sword,  for  I  wnnld  spare  tftee,  queen. 

PENTHBSILKA. 
Lift  than  thy  sword,  or  perish  at  my  hand. 

ACHILLES. 
fame  tut  a  moment ;  thou  art  wondrous  fair. 

PENTHESILFA. 

My  face  no  fairer  than  my  arm  is  strong. 

ACHILLES. 

Thy  arm  was  made  for  love  and  not  for  war. 

PENTHESILEA. 

Yet  it  can  strike  a  sure  aud  deadly  blow. 

ACHILLES. 

Forbear!  forbear!  the  fates  are  on  my  side. 

PENTHESILEA. 

Tht  Gods  for  Penthesilea  and  for  Troyl 
VIRNA  WOODS. 


CHORUS   AND   SEMI-CHORUS. 

VIRNA   WOODS. 

Penthesilea,  Queen  of  the  Amazons,  challenges  Achilles  to  single  combat  and  is  slain 
by  him,  but  not  before  he  has  noted  her  marvelous  beauty  and  courage,  and  moved  by 
sudden  love,  would  have  withheld  the  fatal  blow.  He  laments  over  her  death  and  is 
taunted  by  Thersites.  Angered  beyond  endurance,  Achilles  turns  upon  him  and  slays 
him.  Diomed,  to  avenge  Thersites'  death,  steals  the  body  of  Penthes'lea,  which  Ai  Miles 
had  returned  to  the  Amazons,  and  casts  it  into  the  Scamander,  over  which  the  Amazons 
lament. 


w 


FIRST  SKMI-CHORUS. 

HERE  is  the  maiden  peerless, 
Mighty  in  war  and  fearless, 
Lovely  and  fair  as  the  dawn? 


SECOND  SEMI-CHORUS. 

Under  the  rippling  water, 
White  from  Achaean  slaughter, 
Slumbers  the  Amazon's  daughter, 
Torn  and  haggard  and  wan. 


CALIFORNIA    POETS.  ICU 

FIRST  SEMI-CHORUS. 

Is  it  the  stars  that  shiver 
Their  silent  lights  in  the  river? 
Is  it  the  moon's  pale  gleam? 

SECOND  SEMI-CHORUS. 

Those  are  her  eyes  that  brighten, 
Those  are  her  arms  that  whiten, 
Those  are  her  features  that  lighten 

The  gloom  of  the  shadowy  stream. 

FIRST  SEMI-CHORUS. 

Is  that  the  drifting  rushes  ? 
Is  that  a  flower  that  brushes 
•'Its  petals  upon  the  waves? 

SECOND  SEMI-CHORUS. 

Those  her  unfilleted  tresses, 
Lips  that  were  made  for  caresses, 
Fingers  the  water-god  presses, 
Beauty  the  water-god  laves. 

CHORUS. 

Rippled  and  stirred  by  the  wind's  faint  flurries, 
Onward  the  undulate  current  hurries. 
The  fret  of  life  and  its  ceaseless  worries 

Sleep  in  the  breast  of  the  silent  queen; 
Tuned  is  the  soul  from  its  high  endeavor, 
The  old  world-voices  are  hushed  forever, 

Her  feet  have  trodden  the  paths  unseen. 


102  EDMUND    RUSSELL'S    READINGS. 

FIRST  SKMI-CHORUS. 

Under  the  faint  star-candles 
Night  in  her  silver  sandals 

Speeds  to  the  glowing  morn; 
Morn  as  a  bride  receives  her, 
Robes  of  the  sunrise  weaves  her, 
Slays  and  kisses  and  leaves  her 

Dim  and  pallid  and  worn. 

SECOND  SEMI-CHORUS. 

So  did  the  maiden  hasten 
Swift  to  avenge  and  chasten, 

Strong  to  the  battle-plain  ; 
The  heart  of  Achilles  knew  hef, 
The  hand  of  Achilles  slew  her, 
With  robes  of  dust  to  strew  her 

He  left  her  among  the  slain. 

FIRST  SEMI-CHORUS. 

As  tiger  from  mountain  fastness, 
As  monster  from  ocean  vastness, 
Came  the  fierce  Diomed. 

SECOND  SEMI-CHORUS. 

Far  from  the  arms  of  lover, 
With  only  the  waves  for  cover, 
With  wails  of  the  wind  above  her, 
Slumbers  the  lovely  dead. 


CALIFORNIA   POETS.  1 03 

CHORUS. 

Life's  sweet  guerdon  her  spirit  misses. 
Never  for  her  are  earthly  blisses, 
Never  the  touch  of  love's  warm  kisses, 

Only  the  chill  of  the  river's  lips; 
Never  for  her  the  bridal  tapers, 
Only  the  mist  and  gloomy  vapors, 

Only  the  night  and  love's  eclipse. 

FIRST  SEMI-CHORUS. 

Far  from  the  flowing  Scamander 
Alone  does  her  shadow  wander 

On  shores  of  the  murmurless  stream; 
And  still  does  she  shudder  and  shiver 
At  sight  of  the  desolate  river, 
Her  spirit  athrob  and  aquiver, 

As  under  the  spell  of  a  dream. 

SECOND  SEMI-CHORUS. 

Lo !  Charon  looks  gloom  before  him, 
Unmoved  that  her  white  hands  implore  him, 

Unheeding  her  prayers  and  her  tears; 
No  matter  how  lonely  her  plight  is, 
No  matter  how  heavy  the  night  is, 
While  over  the  river  Thersites 

The  shadowy  boatman  steers. 

FIRST  SEMI-CHORUS.  " 

Oh !  never  the  queen  will  greet  us, 
Laid  low  by  the  son  of  Thetis, 
Dishonored  by  Diomed. 


IO4  EDMUND    RUSSELL  S    READINGS. 

SECOND  SEMI-CHORUS. 
And  never  the  fire  that  dashes 
On  pyre  and  on  altar  flashes 
Will  give  up  the  sacred  ashes 
For  memory  of  the  dead. 

CHORUS. 

Her  deeds  are  done  and  her  words  are  spoken, 
The  wine  is  quaffed  and  the  bowl  is  broken ; 
Oh !  what  is  Life,  that  it  leaves  no  token  ? 

Oh!  what  is  Death,  that  it  makes  no  sign? 
Are  they  the  real  that  blossoms  and  passes, 
The  flowers  that  fade  and  the  withered  grasses, 

Or  only  the  shadows  of  form  divine? 

FIRST  SEMI-CHORUS. 

Lo!  a  white  face  uplifted, 
Lo !  a  fair  body  drifted 

Out  on  the  rushing  stream  ; 

SECOND  SEMI-CHORUS.  ' 

Mad  are  the  waves  with  motion, 
Drunk  with  the 'wild  wind's  potion, 
Lost  in  infinite  ocean, 

Faded  as  fades  a  dream. 

FIRST  SEMI-CHORUS. 

Softly  the  nymphs  are  risen, 
Purple  their  tresses  glisten, 

Wide  are  their  purple  eyes ; 
Parting  the  waves  asunder, 
Mutely  they  look  and  wonder; 
Never  such  beauty  under 

Billowy  seas  and  skies. 


CALIFORNIA    POETS.  IO5 

SECOND  SEMI-CHORUS. 

Even  the  gloomy  Poseidon 
Watches  her  glimmer  and  glide  on, 

Whiter  than  spray  and  foam; 
Thinks  her  a  goddess  in  slumber 
Of  the  immortal  number, 
Careless  of  sea-weeds'  cumber, 

Strayed  from  Olympian  home. 

CHORUS. 

Hark !  the  winds  and  the  waves  are  slowly 
Chanting  the  hymns  for  the  dead,  who  lowly 
Lays  her  head  on  the  couch  unholy, 

Spread  with  the  drift  and  slime  of  the  deep ; 
Down  in  the  gloom  the  oceanids  pour  all 
Their  hidden  wealth  of  pearls  and  of  coral 

To  deck  the  queen  in  her  silent  sleep. 

FIRST  SEMI-CHORUS. 

Peace  to  the  maiden  lonely, 
Peace  to  her  soul,  for  only 

Prayers  we  can  give,  and  tears; 
Lost  to  the  light  and  splendor, 
Silence  and  gloom  attend  her; 
May  the  Eumenides  send  her 

Peace  in  the  pulseless  years. 

SECOND  SEMI-CHORUS. 

Never  a  smile  will  cheer  her, 
Never  a  lover  near  her, 

Never  a  face  from  the  throng ; 


io6  EDMUND  RUSSELL'S  READINGS. 

Never  a  note  of  laughter 
Ripple  and  sparkle  after; 
Never  the  wind  will  waft  her 

Words  and  splendor  of  song. 

FIRST  SEMI-CHORUS. 

Gone  is  breath  from  the  bosom, 
Gone  is  the  dew  from  the  blossom, 
Gone  is  dawn  from  the  hills ; 

SECOND  SEMI-CHORUS. 

Slowly  the  dim  hours  wear  on ; 
Only  from  swamp  and  barren 
Lo !  the  voice  of  the  heron 
Night  and  the  silence  fills. 

CHORUS. 

Oh !  that  we  left  our  fields  to  the  reaper, 
Oh !  that  we  prayed  to  Zeus,  the  keeper, 
Oh !  that  we  mourn  the  beautiful  sleeper, 

Silent  and  cold  in  the  cold,  still  sea ; 
Would  we  had  left  not  our  woodland  chases, 
Would  we  had  sought  not  the  foreign  faces, 

Would  we  had  came  not,  lost  Troy,  to  thee. 

FIRST  SKMI-CHORUS. 

There  does  the  night  bring  easeful 
Hours  and  dream-visions  peaceful, 

Breathing  of  dew  and  shade; 
There  in  the  green  fields  hilly, 
White  in  the  moonlight  stilly, 
Slumber  the  rose  and  lily, 

Stainless  and  unafraid. 


CALIFORNIA    POETS.  IOy 

SECOND  SEMI-CHORUS. 

Not  the  tumult  of  battle, 
Not  the  clamor  and  rattle, 

Not  the  flashing  of  spears; 
Only  the  cool,  dim  noises, 
Nightly  intangible  voices; 
Haply  the  wood  rejoices 

And  but  a  wood-nymph  hears. 

CHORUS. 

Oh !  for  the  sea  and  mountain, 
Oh  !  for  the  stream  and  fountain, 

Oh !  for  the  fields  of  home ; 
Moon  o'er  the  lake  arisen 
Waters  that  break  and  glisten, 
Valleys  that  wake  and  listen, 

Woodlands,  we  come,  we  come. 

(From  The  Amazons — a  lyrical  drama.) 


THE   ISLES   OF  THE   AMAZONS. 

God's  poet  is  silence!    His  song  is  unspoken, 

And  yet  so  profound,  so  loud,  and  so  far, 
It  fills  you,  it  thrills  you  with  measures  unbroken, 

And  as  still,  and  as  fair,  and  as  far  as  a  star. 

The  shallow  seas  moan.     From  the  first  they  have  mutter'd, 
As  a  child  that  is  fretted,  and  wept  at  their  will.      .    . 

The  poems  of  God  are  too  grand  to  be  utter' d: 
The  dreadful  deep  seas  they  are  loudest  when  still. 

JOAQUIN  MILLER. 


.SV>/7  music  swells  out  on  the  >  if  hi 
I  It     nir  is  a-tlnub  with  ftfifnni-, 

•\N.I  Jtf  fert  of  the  dancers  jail  light- 
Yet  Death  crouches  low  in  the  room. 

C.    H.    \\BliB. 


THE    TELEGRAM. 

SARAH    EDWARDS    HENSHAW. 

DEAD!  did  you  say?  he!  dead  in  his  prime! 
Son  of  my  mother !  my  brother !  my  friend ! 
While  the  horologe  points  to  the  noon  of  his  time, 
Has  his  sun  set  in  darkness?  is  all  at  an  end? 
( ' '  By  a  sudden  accident. ' ' ) 

Dead !  it  is  not,  it  cannot,  it  must  not  be  true ! 

Let  me  read  the  dire  words  for  myself,  if  I  can ; 
Relentless,  hard,  cold,  they  rise  on  my  view  — 

They  blind  me !  how  did  you  say  that  they  ran? 
("He  zv as  mortally  injured" ) 

Dead !  around  me  I  hear  the  singing  of  birds 

And  the  breath  of  June  roses  comes  in  at  the  pane; 

Nothing  —  nothing  is  changed  by  those  terrible  words; 
They  cannot  be  true !  let  me  see  them  again  1 
( '  'And  died  yesterday. ' ' ) 

Dead !  a  letter  but  yesterday  told  of  his  love ! 

Another  to-morrow  the  tale  will  repeat; 
Outstripped  by  this  thunderbolt  flung  from  above, 

Scathing  my  heart,  as  it  falls  at  my  feetl 
("Funeral  to-morrow" ) 


CALIFORNIA   POETS.  1 

Oh !  terrible  Telegraph !  subtle  and  still ! 

Darting  thy  lightnings  with  pitiless  haste! 
No  low  morning  thunders  —  no  storm-boding  thrill — 

But  one  fierce,  deadly  flash,  and  the  heart  iieth  waste! 
( ' '  Inform  his  friends. ' ' ) 


ROCKING  THE   BABY. 

I  hear  her  rocking  the  baby, 

Slower  and  slower  now, 
And  I  know  she  is  leaving  her  good-night  kiss 

On  its  eyes  and  cheek  and  brow. 
From  her  rocking,  rocking,  rocking, 

I  wonder  would  she  start, 
Could  she  know,  through  the  wall  between  us, 

She  is  rocking  on  a  heart. 

While  my  empty  arms  are  aching 

For  a  form  they  may  not  press, 
And  my  emptier  heart  is  breaking 

In  its  desolate  loneliness, 
1  list  to  the  rocking,  rocking, 

In  the  room  just  next  to  mine, 
And  breathe  a  prayer  in  silence 

At  a  mother's  broken  shrine, 
For  the  woman  who  rocks  the  baby 

In  the  room  just  next  to  mine. 

MADGE  MORRIS  WAGNK*. 


The  white  gods,  standing  straight  and  sttO, 
Each  in  his  niche  of  altar-stone. 
Look,  with  unfitting,  sightless  eyes. 

KATE  M.  BISHOP. 


LEX    SCRIPTA. 

NATHAN  C.    KOUNS. 

"For  the  Letter  killeth;  but  the  Spirit  giveth  life."— ST.  PAUU 

THIS  once  I  dreamed. — Before  me  grandly  stood 
One  fashioned  like  a  Deity — his  brow 
Still,  massive,  white — calm  as  Beatitude, 
All  passion  sifted  from  its  sacred  glow, 
His  eyes  serenely  fathomless  and  wise, 

His  lips  just  fit  to  fashion  words  that  fall 
Like  silent  lightning  from  the  summer  skies 
To  kill  without  the  thunder ;  over  all 
The  sense  of  Thor's  vast  strength  and  symmetry  of  Saul. 

Clad  with  eternal  youth,  the  ages  brake 

Harmlessly  over  his  majestic  form, 
As  the  clouds  break  on  Shasta.     Then  I  spake 

Glad  words,  awe-struck,  devotional,  and  warm : 
"Behold,"  I  cried,  "the  promised  One  is  come — 

The  Leader  of  the  Nations,  pure  and  strong ! 
He  who  shall  make  this  wailing  earth  our  Home, 

And  guide  the  sorrowful  and  weak  along 

To  reach  a  Land  of  Rest  where  right  has  conquered  wrong ! 

"Oh,  He  shall  build  in  mercy,  and  shall  found 

Justice  as  firmly  as  Sierra's  base, 
And  unseal  founts  of  charity  profound 
As  Tahoe's  crystal  waters  and  erase 


CALIFORNIA   POETS.  Ill 

The  lines  of  vice,  and  selfishness,  and  crime 
From  the  scarred  heart  of  sad  Humanity. 

Hail,  splendid  Leader!  Hail,  auspicious  time! 
When  might  and  right  with  holiness  shall  be 
Like  bass  and  treble  blent  in  anthems  of  the  free!" 

Just  then  I  heard  a  wailing,  mocking  voice 
Shiver  and  curse  along  the  still,  dark  night, 

Freezing  the  marrow  in  my  bones :   "Rejoice; 
And  may  your  Leader  lead  you  to  the  Light ! 

He  laid  that  perfect  hand  of  His  on  me 

And  left  me  what  I  am  —  cursed,  crushed,  and  blind — 

A  living,  hopeless,  cureless  Infamy, 

Bound  with  such  bonds  as  He  alone  can  bind — 
Bonds  that  consume  the  flesh  and  putrefy  the  mind." 

I  looked,  and  saw  what  once  had  been  a  girl; 

A  sense  of  beauty  glinted  round  her  frame, 
Like  corpse-lights  over  rottenness  that  swirl 

To  image  putrid  forms  in  ghastly  flame. 
"Poor,  tempted,  weak,  I  did  sin  once,"  she  cried, 
"And  I  was  damned  for  it — would  I  were  dead! 
The  partner  of  my  guilt  was  never  tried  ; 

Your  Leader  there  was  on  his  side,  and  said 

That  this  was  right  and  just."    The  woman  spoke  and  fled. 

That  wondrous  Being  did  not  move  or  speak, 

Did  not  regard  that  lost,  accusing  soul 
More  than  he  did  the  night  breeze  on  his  cheek  ; 

Smiled  not  nor  frowned ;  serene,  sedate  and  cold. 
And  while  I  wondered  that  no  holy  wrath 

Blazed  from  his  eyes,  a  wretched  creature  came 
Cringing  and  moaning,  skulking  in  the  path 

A  fierce,  wild  beast,  that  cruelty  kept  tame  — 

A  lying,  coward  thing,  for  which  there  is  no  name. 


112  EDMUND   RUSSELL'S    READINGS. 

This  whining,  human,  wretchedest  complaint, 

Crouching,  as  from  some  unseen  lash,  thus  spoke: 
"He  held  the  poison  to  my  lips;  the  taint 

Corrupts  me  through  and  through !  his  iron  yoke, 
Worn  on  my  ankles,  make  me  shuffle  so. 

'  The  criminal  class ' !     Yea,  that  was  the  hot  brand 
Which  worked  me  such  irremediable  woe, 
Writ  on  my  soul  by  his  relentless  hand  — 
A  doom  more  fearful  than  the  just  can  understand. 

"  He  careth  nothing  for  the  right  or  truth, 

Believes  in  nought  save  punishment  and  crime, 

Regardeth  not  the  plea  of  sex,  or  youth, 
Nor  hoary  hair,  nor  manhood  in  its  prime. 

That  which  is  called  '  respectable '  and  '  rich ' 
Seems  right  to  him ;  and  that  he  doth  uphold 

With  force  implacable,  calm,  cruel,  which 
Hath  delegated  all  God's  power  to  gold, 
Making  the  many  weak,  the  few  more  bad  and  bold, 

"  He  never  championed  the  weak ;  no  cause 

Was  holy,  just  and  pure  enough  to  gain 
His  aid  without ' '  a  momentary  pause, 

Born  of  some  superhuman  throe  of  pain 
Let  in  a  calm,  grave  voice,  that  quietly 

Pursued  the  swift  indictment :  "I  declare 
Wherever  right  and  wrong  were  warring,  he 

Displayed  his  merciless,  calm  forces,  where 

He  might  most  aid  the  strong,  and  bid  the  weak  despair. 

"  He  murdered  Christ  and  Socrates,  and  set 

Rome's  diadem  upon  the  felon  brows 
Of  Caesars  and  Caligulas,  and  wet 

Zion's  high  altar  with  the  blood  of  sows. 


CALIFORNIA   POETS. 

For  evermore  the  slaughter  of  mankind, 
Oppressions,  sacrileges,  cruelties, 

Thongs  for  the  flesh,  and  tortures  for  the  mind — 
These  are  his  works!"     Astounded,  dizzy,  blind, 
I  gathered  up  my  soul,  and  cast  all  fear  behind. 

"This  grand  but  beautiful  thing  should  die,"  I  cried, 
"  In  God's  great  name,  have  at  thee!"     Then  I  sprung 
With  superhuman  strength  and  swiftness  —  tried 

To  seize,  to  strangle,  and  to  kill,  and  flung 
All  my  soul's  force  to  break  and  bear  him  down. 

The  calm,  strong  being  did  not  move  or  speak ; 
The  grand  face  showed  no  trace  of  smile  or  frown ; 

The  eyes  burned  not;  the  beautiful,  smooth  cheek 

Nor  flushed  nor  paled,  but  I  grew  impotent  and  weak. 

A  hand  reached  forth,  as  fair  and  delicate 

As  any  girl's,  as  if  but  to  caress 
My  throat;  the  steel-like  fingers,  firm  as  fate, 

Relentless,  merciless,  and  passionless, 
Began  to  strangle  me ;  the  chill  of  death 

Crept  on  me  numbing  brain  and  heart  and  eye. 
"Who  art  thou,  Devil?"  shrieked  I,  without  breath. 

Before  death  came  I  heard  his  cold  reply : 
"I  am  Lex  Scripta,  madman,  and  I  cannot  die." 


With  joy  me  loved  to  watch  creative  powtr 
That  added  life  to  beauty  every  hour. 

M.  B.  M.  TOLANO. 


GENESIS. 

LORENZO   SOSSO. 

Ere  Eve  had  eaten  the  fruit  forbidden 

With  man  first  born  ; 
Whilst  yet  the  light  of  the  sun  was  hidden 

And  day  and  morn  ; 
I  was,  and  am,  and  shall  be  forever 

Supremely  willed ; 
The  highest  glory  of  man's  endeavor, 

That  ever  thrilled 
The  spirit  of  men  in  times  and  places 

With  deepest  bliss. 
The  song  of  the  Muses,  the  dance  of  the  Graces, 

Of  Venus  the  kiss. 

The  Krishna  placidly  calm  in  beauty, 

The  Incarnate ; 
Gautama  teaching  to  men  their  duty, 

And  Chance,  and  Fate. 
I  was  the  Isis  of  Egypt's  altars, 

The  veiled  divine  : 
The  spirit  that  followed  the  shawms  and  psalters, 

To  Israel's  shrine 
I  was  the  god  of  the  grottoes  sunken 

In  Thessaly. 
The  wild  Bacchantes  their  revels  drunken 

Performed  for  me. 


CALIFORNIA   POETS. 

I  was  with  Christ  in  his  holy  mission 

From  Nazareth ; 
I  saw  the  terrible  crucifixion, 

The  beautiful  death. 
The  ponderous  cenotaph's  marble  portal 

My  hands  did  break, 
The  soul  immortal  of  Love's  immortal 

I  bade  awake. 
And  when  the  Evangels  the  visions  splendid 

Of  Christ  had  seen, 
I  was  the  spirit  that  then  attended 

The  Nazarene. 


EXILE. 

Under  heavy  eyelids  lie 
Glowing  breadths  of  tropic  sky; 
A  cloud-like  incense  in  the  west; 
An  isle  upon  the  Ocean's  breast ; 
Long,  crested  waves,  that  haste  to  reach 
And  perish  on  a  snow-white  beach. 
A  shining  shallop,  trim  and  frail, 
Borne  down  upon  a  spicy  gale ; 
Two  lovers  in  the  ocean  vast— 
Two  lovers  loving  well  at  last 
Within  the  shadow  of  the  sail. 

Under  heavy  eyelids  creep 
Fitful  shadows  fraught  with  sleep; 
Subtle  odors  in  the  air 
Pause  and  tremble  everywhere; 
Melancholy  night-birds  sing ; 
Fire-flies  are  on  the  wing ; 
Fragrant  delis  of  turf  and  fern 
Where  the  cactus  blossoms  burn  ; 

Two  lovers  fleeing  from  the  p;ut — 
Two  lovers  loving  well  at  last 
Shall  never  to  the  world  return. 


•    *    »    •    Mid  hush  and peacf. 

Far,  fai  as  sea-lost  star  is  sent, 
God's  hand  is  Iftingfrom  the  s'as 
Som-~  Isle  of  splendor  for  my  queen. 

Sing  palm-set  land  in  Gou's  right  hand,  ... 

H  'itft  opal  sea  and  ardent  sky, 
Where  only  thou  and  I  may  land — 
May  land  and  love  for  aye  and  eye; 
Thou  and  I, 
Chi  ist,  thou  and  I. 

JOAQOIN  MILLER. 

ULTIMA    THULE. 

LORENZO   SOSSO. 

IF  man  might  demand  of  the  gods  that  for  which  all  his  spirit 
doth  yearn 
To  bless  him  and  crown  him  forever  in  life,  and  the  gods  made 

return ; 
What  boon  would  his  incense  arise  like  a  cloud  for, — his  spirit 

beseech; — 

What  glory  to  garland  his  soul  of  desire  with  of  bliss  within 
reach  ? 

Is  it  Fame  who  has  woven  the  brow  of  her  lovers  with  thorns 

dipped  in  blood? 
Is  it  Wealth  that  has  trampled  Life's  flowers  to  ashes  ere  grown 

from  the  bud  ? 
Is  it  Beauty  whose  lips  are  a  chalice  of  wine  and  whose  words 

are  a  song? 
Is  it  Pleasure  the  naked  Bacchante  so  frail  in  her  joys  yet  so 

strong? 

What  garland  gives  Fame  unto  man  as  he  stands  like  a  Christ 

on  the  cross? 
What  treasures  give  Wealth  unto  man  all  whose  treasures  are 

only  as  dross  ? 
What  nectar  gives  Beauty  to  spirits  that  yearn  for  nepenthe  or 

death? 
Or  Pleasure,  whose  fragrance  and  flowers  make  faint  with  their 

poisonous  breath? 


CALIFORNIA   POETS.  117 

The    heavens   that  glow   in   their    splendor   and   wonder   of 

sunshine  beyond; 
The  earth  with  its  marvellous  life-crown,  the  oceans  unfathomed 

respond; 
The  oceans  give  voice  to  the  earth,  and  the  earth  to  the  heavens 

above ; 
One  glory  alone  do  we  ask  of  the  gods,  and  that  glory  is  Love ! 


SAN   FRANCISCO. 

0  lion's  whelp,  that  hidest  fast 

In  jungle  growth  of  spire  and  mast, 

1  know  thy  cunning  and  thy  greed, 
Thy  hard  high  lust  and  wilful  deed, 

And  all  thy  glory  loves  to  tell 
Of  specious  gifts  material. 

Drop  down,  O  fleecy  Fog,  and  hide 
Her  skeptic  sneer,  and  all  her  pride ! 

Wrap  her,  O  Fog,  in  gown  and  hood 
Of  her  Franciscan  Brotherhood. 

Hide  well  her  faults,  her  sin  and  blame, 
With  thy  grey  mantle  cloak  her  shame. 

So  shall  she,  cowle'd,  sit  and  pray 
Till  morning  bears  her  sins  away, 

Then  rise,  O  fleecy  Fog,  and  raise 
The  glory  of  her  coming  days ; 

When  all  her  throes  and  anxious  fears 
Lie  hushed  in  the  repose  of  years ; 

When  Art  shall  raise  and  culture  lift 
The  sensual  joys  and  meaner  thrift, 

And  all  fulfilled  the  vision,  we 

Who  watch  and  wait  shall  never  see — 

Who,  in  the  morning  of  her  race, 
Toiled  fair  or  meanly  in  our  place — 

But,  yielding  to  the  common  lot, 
Lie  unrecorded  and  forgot. 

BRET  HARTH 


No  leaf  that  may  bud 

By  that  dark,  sullen  flood; 

No  flower  that  may  bloom 

With  its  tomb-like  perfume; 

No  subtleized  breath 

That  may  ripple  that  River  of  Death, 

Or  vapory  float  in  the  desolate  air, 

But  is  watched  with  a  vigilant  care, 

Lest  it  steal  from  the  dust  of  the  dead  that  aft  then? 

For  the  elements  aye  are  in  league 

With  a  patience  unknowing  fatigue. 

To  scatter  mortality's  mould 

And  sweep  from  the  graves,  what  they  hold  I 

JOHN  R.  RIDGE. 


APACHE. 

CHARLES   HENRY   PHELPS. 

FROM  the  awful  desolation  of  the  Llano  Estacado 
I  have  traced  my  red  dominions  with  your  blood  upon  the 

sand. 

You  may  see  its  current  tinging  through  the  tawny  Colorado ; 
Are  you  mad,  that  you  imagine  I  shall  stay  my  lifted  hand  ? 
I  defy  you  and  I  hate  you !     Do  you  threaten  me  with  death  ? 
Me,  whose  fervid  spirit  surges  with  the  centuries'  hot  breath? 
Turn  and  ask  this  flaming  desert, — it  has  lain  forever  so ; 
It  has  scorched  the  helpless  mesa  with  its  seething  overflow; 

Molten,  pitiless,  remorseless, — ask  it  if  I  fear  to  die! 
I  am  one  with  this, — immortal ! — and  the  bloodshot  suns  of  years 

Burn  within  my  soul,  as  ages  they  have  burned  this  alkali ; 
I  shall  be  again  the  desert, — what  have  I  to  do  with  fears? 
You  shall  die,  and  I  shall  clasp  you  to  my  heart  with  hot  embrace, 
Whispering  words  of  awful  vengeance  in  your  pallid,  speechless 
face. 


But  he  who  creates  both  the  art  and  the  Artist,  so  chooses, 

That  we  who  fulfill  all  His  purposes  vast  grow  divine  through  their  uses. 

LOKKNZO  Soss>o. 

RATTLIN'  JOE'S   BIBLE. 

CAPTAIN  JACK  CRAWFORD. 

s^ow  vou  my  bible,"  said  Joseph — 
"Jist  hand  me  them  cards  off  that  rack; 
I'll  convince  ye  that  this  are  a  bible," 

And  he  went  to  work  shufflin'  the  pack. 
He  spread  out  the  cards  on  the  table, 

An'  begun  kinder  pious-like :  "Pards, 
If  ye' 11  jist  cheese  yer  racket  an'  listen, 
I'll  show  ye  the  pra'ar-book  in  cards. 
The  'ace',  that  reminds  us  of  one  GOD, 

The  'deuce',  of  the  FATHER  an'  SON, 
The  'tray',  of  the  FATHER  and  SON,  HOLY  GHOST, 

For,  ye  see,  all  them  three  are  but  one. 
The  'four-spot'  is  MATTHEW,  MARK,  LUKE  and  JOHN, 

The  'five-spot',  the  virgins  who  trimmed 
Their  lamps  while  yet  it  was  light  of  the  day, 

And  the  five  foolish  virgins  who  sinned. 
The  'six-spot' — in  six  days  the  Lord  made  the  world, 

The  sea  and  the  stars  in  the  heaven  ; 
He  saw  it  was  good  w'at  he  made,  then  he  said, 

I'll  jist  go  to  rest  on  the  'seven'. 
The  '  eight-spot '  is  Noah,  his  wife  an'  three  sons, 

An'  Noah's  three  sons  had  their  wives; 
God  loved  the  hull  mob,  so  bid  'em  emb-ark — 

In  the  freshet  he  saved  all  their  lives. 
The  '  queen '  war  of  Sheba  in  old  Bible  times. 

The  'king'  represents  old  KING  SOL. 
Now,  the  'knave',  that's  the  Devil,  an'  GOD,  if  yer  please, 
Jist  keep  his  hands  offn  poor  BILL  ! 


—  Kke  the  itngoveme 
That  are  melody  whole,  but  a  discord  apart; 

DANIEL  O'CoNNiu. 


THE    TONE    OF    VOICE. 

SARAH   EDWARDS  HENSHAW. 

IT  is  not  so  much  what  you  say, 
As  the  manner  in  which  you  say  it; 
It  is  not  so  much  the  language  you  use, 
As  the  tones  in  which  you  convey  it. 

' '  Come  here ! "  I  sharply  said, 

And  the  baby  cowered  and  wept ; 

"Come  here!"  I  cooed,  and  he  looked  and  smiled, 
And  straight  to  my  lap  he  crept. 

The  words  may  be  mild  and  fair ; 

And  the  tones  may  pierce  like  a  dart ; 
The  words  may  be  soft  as  the  summer  air, 

And  the  tones  may  break  the  heart. 

For  words  but  come  from  the  mind, 

And  grow  by  study  and  art ; 
But  the  tones  leap  forth  from  the  inner  self. 

And  reveal  the  state  of  the  heart. — 

Whether  you  know  it  or  not, — 

Whether  you  mean  or  care, — 
Gentleness,  kindness,  love  and  hate, 

Envy  and  anger  are  there. 


If,  of  all  words  of  tongue  and  pen, 
The  saddest  are,  "It  might  have  been' 

More  sad  are  those  we  daily  see: 
'It  is,  but  hadn't  ought  to  be." 

BKBT  HARTE. 


ON    THE    LANDING. 

(AN  IDYL  OF  THE  BALUSTERS.) 

BRET    HARTE. 

BOBHV,  aetat  3%. 
JOHNNY,  setat  4J£. 

BOBBY. 


D 


O  you  know  why  they  've  put  us  in  the  back  room, 
Up  in  the  attic  close  against  the  sky, 

And  made  believe  our  nursery  is  a  cloak-room? 
Do  you  know  why? 


JOHNNY. 

No  more  I  don't,  nor  why  that  Sammy's  mother 

What  Ma  thinks  horrid,  'cause  he  bunged  my  eye, 
Eats  an  ice  cream,  down  there  like  any  other — 
Nor  more  don't  II 

BOBBY. 

Do  you  know  why  Nurse  says  it  is  'nt  manners 
For  you  and  me  to  ask  folks  twice  for  pie, 

And  no  one  hits  that  man  with  two  bananas? 
Do  you  know  why? 

JOHNNY. 

No  more  I  don't,  nor  why  that  girl  whose  dress  is 
Off  her  shoulders,  don't  catch  cold  and  die, 

When  you  and  me  gets  croup  when  we  undresses ! 
No  more  don' 1 1 ! 


122  EDMUND    RUSSELL  S    READINGS. 

BOBBY. 

Perhaps  she  ain't  as  good  as  you  and  I  is 

And  God  don't  want  her  up  there  in  the  sky 

And  lets  her  live  —  to  come  in  just  when  pie  is — 
Perhaps  that's  why? 

BOBBY. 

Do  you  know  why  Aunt  Jane  is  always  snarling 
At  you  and  me  because  we  tells  a  lie, 

And  she  do  n'  t  slap  that  man  that  calls  her  darling? 
Do  you  know  why? 

JOHNNY. 

rCo  more  I  don't     Nor  why  that  man  with  Mamma 
Just  kissed  her  hand. 

BOBBY. 

She  hurt  it  —  and  that's  why 

He  made  it  well  the  very  way  that  Mamma 
Does  do  to  I. 

JOHNNY. 

I  feel  so  sleepy.     .     .     .     Was  that  Papa  kissed  us? 
What  made  him  sigh  and  look  up  to  the  sky? 

BOBBY. 

We  wer  'nt  down  stairs,  and  he  and  God  had  missed  us, 
And  that  was  why? 


From  youth 

Right  on,  alone  he  silent  wrought 
Nor  answered  us.     And  yet  from  us  he  kntia 
But  th>~ust  of  lance  that  thrust  him  through  and  through, 

JOAQUIN  MILLER. 


THE    DEVIL'S    BRIDE. 

MARY    LAMBERT. 

r  I  ^HE  Devil  one  day  was  sorely  perplext 

1       And  thus  to  his  henchmen  said : 
"There's  pride,  and  there's  Lust,  there  is  Anger  and  Sloth, 

The  very  best  agents  we've  bred; 
And  yet,  there  are  souls  whom  I  longingly  wait, 
Who  perversely  refuse  our  bait ! 

The  Devil  then  took  a  few  pinches  of  fire 

And  snuffed  up  his  glowing  red  nose, 
Then  roughly  shook  out  all  the  kinks  in  his  tail 

And  thoughtfully  looked  at  his  toes. 

"Oh,  master,  there's  one  that  will  bring  you  these  s'ouls, 

Tho'  the  others  have  tried  in  vain  ; 
Just  fix  up  a  story  for  Slander  to  tell 

And  season  it  well  with  pain ; 
Then  send  her  to  them  while  it's  spicy  and  new 
And  I'll  wager  she'll  bring  them  to  you." 

So  straightway  the  Devil,  his  potion  to  mix, 

Dissected  a  maiden's  fair  name, 
Then  drew  out  the  blood  from  a  mother's  proud  heart 

And  mixed  it  all  up  with  the  shame. 
He  burned  the  lot  well  and  he  seasoned  with  tears, 
Then  gave  it  to  Slander  'mid  cheers. 


124  EDMUND  RUSSELL'S  READINGS. 

She  went  to  the  souls  where  the  others  had  failed 

And  whispered  the  fiendish  news ; 
They,  wondering,  heard,  then  asked  her  to  dine, 

Lest  some  of  the  story  they  lose. 

She  stayed  and  made  friends  with  her  smooth,  oily  tongue, 
And  they  felt  not  the  fangs  that  stung. 

All  those  who  had  listened  she  smilingly  kissed, — 

Her  kiss  the  red  signet  of  hell ; 
And  those  who  recounted  her  horrible  tales 

Beneath  her  dread  wasting  fell ; 
The  loathly  contagion  her  breathing  distilled 
Till  each  soul  with  the  poison  was  filled. 

The  Devil  in  jubilee  capered  about 

And  gave  her  a  seat  at  his  side ; 
The  red  vaulted  caverns  of  hell  were  aglow 

Where  soul-dowered  Slander  was  bride. 


EDITED    BY    HARR    WAGNER 

DESIGNED    ESPECIALLY    FOR 
SUPPLEMENTARY   WORK    IN 

HISTORY  AND  NATURE  STUDY 

IN  OUR  WESTERN   SCHOOLS 

ALL   FULLY  AND  BEAUTIFULLY  ILLUSTRATED.     EACH  VOLUME  CONTAINS 
FROM  EIGHTEEN  TO  TWENTY-SIX  FULL-PAGE  PICTURES. 

FXTENSIVELY  ADOPTED  AND  USED  IN  THE  SCHOOLS  OF  THE  PACIFIC    COAST 


VOL.    I.- 


PACIFIC  HISTORY  STORIES 


BY    HARR    WAGNER 

FOR  FOURTH  AND  FIFTH  GRADES 

During  the  short  time  that  this  book  has  been  on  the  market 
its  sale  has  been  phenomenal.  It  is  pronounced,  by  all  of  our 
leading  educators,  to  be  excellently  adapted  to  the  work  for 
which  it  was  intended  —  a  supplementary  reader  in  history 
study  in  the  Fourth  and  Fifth  Grades.  Fully  two-thirds  of 
the  counties  in  California  have  this  book  on  their  supplemen- 
tary  and  library  list.  _ 

VOL.    II.  - 


PACIFIC  NATURE  STORIES 

BY  HARR   V/AQNER  AND  DAVID   S.  JORDAN 
AND  OTHERS 

FOR  FOURTH  AND  FIFTH  QRADES 

A  companion  volume  to  the  above.  It  contains  some  eighteen 
most  interesting  and  instructive  sketches  of  our  wes_terr  ani 
mal  and  vegetable  life,  all  told  in  a  delightfully  flowing  style 
and  written  by  the  greatest  educators  of  the  West.  As  a 
reading  book  in  nature  study  it  cannot  be  excelled. 


VOL.   III. 


NATURE  STORIES  OF  THE  NORTHWEST 

BY    HERBERT  BASHFORD 

STATE  LIBRARIAN  OF  WASHINGTON 
FOR  SIXTH  AND  SEVENTH  QRADES 

This  book  covers  a  more  extended  field  than  Volume  II.,  and 
is  not  strictly  confined  to  the  Northwest.  Among  the  inter 
esting  stories  will  be  found  those  of  The  Black  Bear,  The 
Kingfisher,  The  Clam,  The  Meadowlark,  The  Seals,  etc.,  all 
of  which  are  of  interest  to  any  pupil  in  the  West.  The 
illustrations  are  works  of  art  and  true  to  nature. 


VOL.    IV.— 
TALES  OF  DISCOVERY  ON  THE  PACIFIC  SLOPE 

BY   MARGARET  GRAHAM    HOOD 

FOR   THIRD  AND  FOURTH   GRADES 

The  Tale  of  History  could  not  be  more  charmingly  told  than 
it  is  in  this  volume,  which  is  intended  for  the  lower  grades. 
A  Third  or  Fourth  Grade  pupil  will  read  it  easily,  and  with 
interest.  Its  eight  chapters  are  devoted  to  the  early  history  of 
our  great  western  empire,  and  tell  of  characters  and  events  but 
little  touched  upon  by  the  general  school  history.  The  child 
here  acquires  a  taste  that  leads  him  to  further  research. 

VOL.  V. 

TALES  OF  OUR  NEW  POSSESSIONS,  THE  PHILIPPINES 
WRITTEN  BY  R.  VAN  BERGEN 

A  THIRTY-YEAR  RESIDENTOF  THE  ORIENT 

AUTHOR  OF  "STORY  OF  JAPAN,"  ETC. 
ILLUSTRATED    BY   P.    N.    BOERIHGER 

WAR  ARTIST  CORRESPONDENT  AT  MANILA 

FOR  SAN  FRANCISCO  PAPERS 
FOR  THE  SIXTH,  SEVENTH  AND  EIGHTH  GRADES 

A  timely  book  for  the  young.  We  employed  to  write  this  vol 
ume,  a  man  whose  thirty -year  residence  in  the  Orient  made 
him  thoroughly  familiar  with  the  people  and  their  customs. 
Its  thirty-eight  chapters,  all  richly  illustrated  by  the  best  artist 
we  could  secure,  will  give  the  pupil  an  excellent  idea  of  our 
new  country  —  a  knowledge  which  will  prove  of  great  finan 
cial  value  to  him. 


VOL.   VI.- 


STORIES  OF  OUR  MOTHER  EARTH 

BY  HAROLD   W,    FAIRBANKS,    PH.  D. 
ILLUSTRATED   BY  MARY  H.    WELLMAN 

WITH   27  FULL-PAGE   ILLUSTRATIONS 

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FOR   THE  SIXTH  AND  SEVENTH  GRADES 

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S  jngs  of  Puget  Sea,  By  Herbert  Bashford i  oo 

Dr.  Jones'  Picnic,  By  Dr.  S.  E-  Chapman i  co 

A  Modern  Argonaut,  By  Leela  B.  Davis i  oo 

Percy  or  the  Four  Inseparables,  By  M.  Lee i  oo 

Personal  Impressions  of  the  Grand  Canyon  of  the  Colorado  ....  i  50 

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No.  2.    Dr.  Jones'  Picnic,  By  Dr.  S.  E.  Chapman 25 

No.  3.    Modern  Argonaut,  By  Leela  B.  Davis 25 

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No.  5.    Patriotic  Quotations 35 

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No.   I.    California  and  the  Californians,  By  David  Starr  Jordan  ...  25 

No.  2.    Love  and  Law,  By  Thos.  P.  Bailey 25 

No.  3.    The  Man  Who  Might  Have  Been,  By  Robert  Whitaker    .  .  25 

No.  4.    Chants  for  the  Boer,  By  Joaquin  Miller  . 25 

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